A**T»,U«t 


SHE  WAS  STANDING  AT  THE  TOP  OF  THE  FIVE 
VERANDA  STEPS  (page  36) 


COMMON  CAUSE 


"Hovel  of  the  War 
in  ^America 


BV 

SAMUEL  HOPKINS  ADAMS 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS 


BOSTON   AND  NEW   YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 


1919 


COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,  1919,   BY  SAMUEL  HOPKINS  ADAMS 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


:3°\n:  \ 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

SHE    WAS    STANDING    AT    THE    TOP    OF    THE     FIVE    VE 
RANDA  STEPS Frontispiece 

"  I  WILL    RAISE    THE    UNIVERSITY   AND    HANG  YOU    TO 

THE  HIGHEST  TREE  ON  THE  CAMPUS  "...    34-O 

Drawn  by  Arthur  William  Brown 


COMMON  CAUSE 
PART  I 


COMMON  CAUSE 

A  NOVEL  OF  THE  WAR  IN  AMERICA 

CHAPTER  I 

DEUTSCHLAND,  Deutschland  uber  alles!"  Three 
thousand  voices  blended  and  swelled  in  the  power 
ful  harmony.  The  walls  of  the  Fenchester  Auditorium 
trembled  to  it.  The  banners,  with  their  German  mottoes 
of  welcome,  swayed  to  the  rhythm. 

"Uber  alles  in  der  Welt!" 

The  thundering  descent  of  the  line  with  its  superb  reso 
nances  was  as  martial  as  a  cavalry  charge.  Three  thou 
sand  flushed,  perspiring,  commonplace  faces  above  re 
spectable  black  coats  in  the  one  sex  and  mildly  ornate 
blouses  in  the  other,  were  caught  by  the  fire  and  the 
ferment  of  it  and  grew  suddenly  rapt  and  ecstatic.  Wave 
after  wave  of  massed  harmonies  followed  in  the  onset. 
One  could  feel,  rather  than  hear,  in  the  impassioned  voices 
a  spirit  instantly  more  fanatic,  more  exotic,  a  strange  and 
exultant  note,  as  of  challenge.  It  was  inspiring.  It  was 
startling.  It  was  formidable.  It  was  anything  for  which 
young  Mr.  Jeremy  Robson,  down  in  the  reporters'  seats, 
might  find  an  adjective,  except,  perhaps,  American. 

Yet  this  was  the  American  city  of  Fenchester,  capital 
of  the  sovereign  State  of  Centralia,  in  the  year  of  grace 
and  peace,  nineteen  hundred  and  twelve,  half  a  decade 
before  the  United  States  of  America  descended  into  the 
Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death  to  face  the  German  guns, 


4  COMMON  CAUSE 

thundering  out  that  same  chorus  of  "  Germany  over  all  in 
the  world!" 

All  the  Federated  German  Societies  of  the  State  of 
Centralia  in  annual  convention  assembled  might  sing 
their  federated  German  heads  off  for  all  that  Jeremy  Rob- 
son  cared.  He  mildly  approved  the  music,  not  so  much 
for  the  sense  as  for  the  sound,  under  cover  of  which  he  was 
enabled  to  question  his  neighbor,  Galpin,  of  The  Guard 
ian,  concerning  the  visiting  notabilities  upon  the  stage. 
For  young  Mr.  Robson  was  still  a  bit  new  to  his  work  on 
The  Record,  and  rather  flattered  that  an  assignment  of 
this  importance  should  have  fallen  to  him.  The  local  and 
political  celebrities  he  already  knew  —  the  Governor ;  the 
Mayor;  Robert  Wanser,  President  of  the  Fenchester 
Trust  Company;  State  Senator  Martin  Embree;  Carey 
Crobin,  the  "Boss  of  the  Ward";  Emil  Bausch,  Presi 
dent  of  the  local  Deutscher  Club ;  and  a  dozen  of  the  other 
leading  citizens,  all  ornamented  with  conspicuous  badges. 
Galpin  obligingly  indicated  the  principal  strangers. 
Gordon  Fliess,  of  Bellair,  head  of  the  Fliess  Brewing  Com 
pany;  the  Reverend  Theo  Gunst,  the  militant  ecclesiast 
of  a  near-by  German  Theological  Seminary ;  Ernst  Bauer, 
of  the  Marlittstown  Herold  und  Zeitung;  Pastor  Klink, 
the  recognized  head  of  the  German  religious  press  of  the 
region ;  Martin  Dolge,  accredited  with  being  the  dictator 
of  the  State's  educational  system ;  and  the  Herr  Professor 
Koerner,  of  the  University  of  Felsingen,  special  envoy 
from  Germany  to  the  United  States  for  the  propagation 
of  that  wide-spread  and  carefully  fostered  Teutonic 
plant,  Deutschtum,  the  spirit  of  German  Kultur  in  for 
eign  lands. 

At  the  close  of  the  musical  exaltation  of  Germany 


COMMON  CAUSE  5 

above  all  the  world,  including,  of  course,  the  hospitably 
adoptive  nation  under  whose  protection  the  singers  sat, 
the  exercises  proceeded  with  a  verbal  glorification  of  the 
Fatherland.  The  Governor,  in  complimentary  and  care 
fully  memorized  German,  lauded  the  Teutons  as  the 
prop  of  the  State.  The  Mayor,  in  strongly  Teutonized 
English,  proclaimed  them  the  hope  of  the  city.  Several 
other  speakers,  whose  accents  identified  them  as  more 
American  than  their  sentiments,  acclaimed  the  upholders 
of  Deutschtum  as  salt  of  the  earth  and  pillars  of  Society. 
Then  a  chorus  of  public  school  children,  in  the  colors  of 
imperial  Germany  rose  to  sing  "  Die  Wacht  am  Rhein," 
and  everybody  rose  with  them,  or  nearly  everybody. 
They  sang  it  directly  in  the  face  of  his  Imperial  Majesty, 
Kaiser  Wilhelm,  gazing,  bewreathed,  down  at  them  from 
over  the  stage,  with  stern  and  martial  approval. 

"They  do  it  mighty  well,"  commented  young  Jeremy 
Robson. 

"  Ay-ah.  Why  would  n't  they! "  returned  Galpin. 

"  You  mean  they've  been  specially  drilled  for  it?  " 

"  Specially  nothing!  That 's  part  of  their  regular  school 
exercises." 

"  In  the  German  schools?  " 

"  In  the  public  schools.  Our  schools.  Paid  for  out  of 
our  taxes.  'Come  to  order.'  Tap-tap-tap  with  Teacher's 
ruler.  '  Der  bupils  will  now  rice  und  zing  "  Die  Wacht  am 
Rhein."  '  But  try  em  with  'America,'  and  they  would  n't 
know  the  first  verse." 

"  You  seem  to  feel  strongly  about  it." 

"  Not  in  working  hours.  Have  n't  got  any  feelings. 
I'm  a  reporter." 

From  this  point  the  programme  was  exclusively  in 


6  COMMON  CAUSE 

German.  The  next  speaker,  Pastor  Klink,  rose  and  glori 
fied  God,  a  typically  if  not  exclusively  German  God. 
Emil  Bausch,  following,  extolled  the  Kaiser  rather  more 
piously  than  his  predecessor  had  glorified  the  Kaiser's 
Creator.  Martin  Dolge  apostrophized  the  spirit  of 
Deutschtum,  which,  if  one  might  believe  him,  was  in 
vented  by  the  Creator  and  improved  by  the  Kaiser.  Just 
here  occurred  an  unfortunate  break  in  the  programme. 
The  next  speaker  on  the  list  had  been  called  out,  and  an 
interim  must  be  filled  while  he  was  retrieved.  The  chair 
man  motioned  to  the  band  leader  for  music.  Whether  in 
a  spirit  of  perversity  or  by  sheer,  unhappy  chance,  the 
director  led  his  men  in  the  strains  of  "The  Star-Spangled 
Banner." 

In  justice  to  our  citizens  of  German  descent  and  al 
legiance,  it  must  be  admitted  that  they  are  of  equable 
spirit.  Nobody  openly  resented  the  playing  of  the  na 
tional  anthem.  A  glance  of  disapproval  passed  between 
the  professorial  envoy  from  Germany  and  Pastor  Klink, 
and  some  of  the  others  on  the  stage  frowned  momenta 
rily.  But  their  habitual  tolerant  good  nature  at  once  re 
asserted  itself.  Of  course,  no  one  rose;  that  gesture  was 
reserved  for  the  German  national  music.  No  one,  that 
is  who  counted,  in  that  assemblage.  But  from  the  re 
porters'  seats  Jeremy  Robson  and  Galpin  dimly  made 
out  a  figure,  long-coated,  straw-hatted  and  slim,  in  the 
first  row  of  the  balcony's  farthest  corner,  standing  stiffly 
erect. 

Around  it  buzzed  a  small  disturbance.  There  were 
sounds  of  laughter,  which  spread  and  mingled  with  a  few 
calls  of  disapprobation.  A  woman  beside  the  erect  fig 
ure  seemed  to  be  making  an  effort  at  dissuasion.  It  was 


COMMON  CAUSE  7 

unavailing.  On  the  stage  there  were  curious  looks  and 
queries.  Presently  the  whole  house  was  gazing  at  the 
slender,  lone  figure. 

"Who's  the  kid?"  asked  Jeremy  Robson,  interested. 

"  Don't  know  him,"  answered  Galpin,  staring. 

"  I  like  his  nerve,  anyway." 

"It's  better  than  his  style,"  commented  the  other, 
grinning.  "  If  he's  going  to  stand  to  attention,  why  does 
n't  he  takeoff  his  hat?" 

"Here's  another  one,"  said  The  Guardian  reporter, 
turning  toward  the  lower  tier  box  on  their  right. 

An  iron-gray,  square- jawed  man  with  shrewd  and 
pleasant  eyes,  who,  in  his  obviously  expensive  but  easy- 
fitting  suit  of  homespun,  gave  the  impression  of  physical 
power,  was  shouldering  his  way  to  the  rail.  A  small 
American  flag  occupied  a  humble  position  in  a  group  of 
insignia  ornamenting  the  next  box.  The  man  plucked  it 
out  and  made  as  if  he  would  raise  it  above  his  head,  then 
changed  his  mind.  Holding  it  stiffly  in  front  of  him  he 
turned  to  face  the  distant  figure,  and  so  stood,  grim,  awk 
ward,  solid,  while  the  chosen  voice  of  the*  Nation's  pa 
triotism  sang  to  unheeding  ears  below. 

"Movie  stuff,"  observed  Jeremy  Robson  with  that 
cynicism  which  every  young  reporter  considers  proper 
to  his  profession. 

" That 's  Magnus  Laurens,"  said  his  mentor.  "Noth 
ing  theatrical  about  Magnus.  He's  a  reg'lar  feller." 

The  novice  was  impressed.  For  Laurens  was  a  name 
of  prestige  throughout  Centralia.  Its  owner  controlled 
the  water-power  of  the  State  and  was  a  growing  political 
figure. 

"What's  he  doing  it  for?"  he  inquired. 


8  COMMON  CAUSE 

"Because  he's  an  American,  I  suppose.  Queer  reason, 
ain't  it!" 

"There's  another,  then,"  returned  Robson,  as  there 
arose,  from  a  front  row  seat  on  the  stage,  the  strong  and 
graceful  figure  of  Martin  Embree,  State  Senator  from  the 
Northern  Tier  where  the  Germans  make  up  three  fourths 
of  the  population. 

"Trust  Smiling  Mart  to  do  the  tactful  thing,"  ob 
served  Galpin.  "He's  the  guy  that  invented  popularity, 
and  he's  held  the  patent  ever  since." 

The  Senator  was  wearing  his  famous  smile  which  was 
both  a  natural  ornament  and  a  political  asset.  He  di 
rected  it  upon  Magnus  Laurens  who  did  not  see  it,  turned 
it  toward  the  slim  patriot  in  the  gallery  who  may  or  may 
not  have  observed  it,  and  then  carried  it  close  to  the  ear 
of  the  chairman.  Snatches  of  his  eager  and  low- toned 
persuasion  floated  down  to  the  listening  Robson. 

"...  all  up.  Can't  .  .  .  harm.  National  .  .  .  after  all. 
If  don't  want  .  .  .  leave  .  .  .  me." 

The  chairman  shook  his  head  glumly,  broke  loose  from 
the  smile,  spoke  a  word  to  the  erring  orchestra  leader. 
The  music  stopped.  The  figure  in  the  balcony  sank  into 
the  dimness  of  its  background.  Magnus  Laurens  sat 
down.  Senator  Embree,  smiling  and  gracious  still,  re 
turned  to  his  chair. 

"There's  my  story,"  said  young  Jeremy  Robson,  ever 
on  the  lookout  for  the  picturesque.  "If  I  can  find  that 
kid,"  he  added. 

"Try  Magnus  Laurens,"  suggested  his  elder.  "Maybe 
he  knows  him." 

Throughout  the  address  of  the  Herr  Professor  Koerner, 
young  Mr.  Robson  sat  absently  making  notes.  The  notes 


COMMON  CAUSE  9 

were  wholly  irrelevant  to  the  learned  envoy's  speech.  Yet 
it  was  an  interesting,  even  a  significant  speech,  had  there 
been  any  in  those  easy  days,  to  appreciate  its  significance. 
The  learned  representative  of  German  propaganda  im 
pressed  upon  his  hearers  the  holy  purpose  of  Deutschtum. 
German  ties  must  be  maintained ;  German  habits  and  cus 
toms  of  life  and  above  all  the  German  speech  must  be 
piously  fostered  at  whatever  distance  from  the  Father 
land,  to  the  end  that,  in  the  inevitable  day  when  Ger 
many's  oppressors,  jealous  of  her  power  and  greatness, 
should  force  her  to  draw  the  sword  in  self-defense,  every 
scion  of  German  blood  might  rally  to  her,  against  the 
world,  if  need  be.  Amidst  the  "Hochs!"  and  "Sehr 
guts!"  which  punctuated  the  oratory,  the  negligent  re 
porter  for  The  Record  sat  sketching  the  outlines  of  his 
word-picture  of  the  stripling  in  the  gallery  and  the  mag 
nate  in  the  box,  standing  to  honor  their  country's  an 
them,  amidst  the  amused  and  patronizing  wonderment 
of  the  Federated  German  Societies  of  Centralia.  As  the 
session  drew  to  a  close,  he  left. 

Magnus  Laurens  had  already  gone.  By  good  fortune, 
young  Jeremy  Robson  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  square  and 
powerful  figure,  emerging  from  the  crowd  and  going  down 
a  side  street.  A  girl  in  a  riding-habit  was  with  him.  In 
the  bearing  of  her  slender  body,  in  the  poise  of  the  little 
head  with  its  tight-packed  strands  of  tawny  hair,  Jeremy 
Robson  caught  a  hint  of  a  subtle  and  innate  quality, 
something  gallant  and  proud  and  challenging.  He  over 
took  them. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Laurens.  My  name  is  Rob- 
son.  I'm  a  reporter  for  The  Record.  Could  I  have  a  word 
with  you?" 


io  COMMON  CAUSE 

The  water-power  magnate  turned  upon  him  a  face  of 
mingled  annoyance  and  amusement. 

"This  is  what  I  get  for  making  a  spectacle  of  myself,  I 
take  it,"  he  grumbled.  "What  do  you  want  to  know? 
Why  I  did  it?" 

"No.  That's  plain  enough.  Who  was  the  boy  in  the 
balcony?" 

"  Boy?  "  repeated  Mr.  Laurens  in  surprise. 

"Yes.  The  kid  that  stood  up  when  they  began  'The 
Star-Spangled  Banner.'  Do  you  know  him?" 

"  Let  me  refer  that  question  to  Miss  Marcia  Ames.  She 
was  right  at  the  spot,  in  the  balcony.  Miss  Ames,  Mr. 
Robson." 

Jeremy  bowed  and  found  himself  looking  into  two 
large,  young,  and  extremely  self-possessed  grayish  eyes, 
frank  and  happy  eyes  on  the  surface,  but  with  inscruta 
ble  lights  and  depths  beneath.  For  the  rest,  his  hasty  im 
pression  recorded  an  alert,  intelligent,  and  delicately 
slanted  face,  and  an  almost  disconcertingly  direct  regard. 
The  skin  was  of  that  translucent  brown-over-pink  which 
the  sun  god  bestows  only  upon  his  tried  and  true  acolytes. 

"  Do  you  know  the  boy,  Miss  Ames?  " 

"What  boy? "  Her  voice  was  cool  and  liquid  and  en 
dearing,  and  just  a  bit  lazily  indifferent,  with  a  strange 
hint  —  never  anything  more  —  of  accent. 

"The  boy  who  stood  in  the  first  row  of  the  balcony." 

"That  was  not  a  boy." 

"No?" 

"That  was  I." 

"You!  You're  much  too  tall." 

"  If  you  thought  me'a  boy  I  should  seem  much  shorter," 
she  returned  composedly. 


COMMON  CAUSE  n 

14  Do  you  mind  telling  me  how  you  came  to  stand  up  as 
you  did?" 

"  I  always  do  when  they  play  my  national  anthem.  Do 
not  you?" 

The  "do  not  you  "  gave  the  young  man  the  clue  to 
her  speech,  to  the  slightly  exotic  quality  of  it.  It  was  less 
the  accent  than  the  clear  precision  of  her  use  of  words, 
without  the  slur  or  contraction  of  common  usage.  The 
charm  of  her  soft  and  rather  deep  voice  saved  it  from 
any  taint  of  the  pedantic. 

"No,"  said  he. 

"Ah?  But  perhaps  you  are  not  an  American." 

"What  else  should  I  be?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  slightly. 

"  Nor  do  I,"  put  in  Magnus  Laurens,  "  I  'm  ashamed  to 
say." 

"At  all  events,  you  did  it  this  time.  It  was  very  nice  in 
you.  Usually  I  feel  quite  lonely.  And  once  they  were  go 
ing  to  arrest  me  for  it." 

"Where  was  that?"  asked  Jeremy  Robson  stealthily 
reaching  for  his  folded  square  of  scratch  paper. 

"In  Germany.  When  I  was  at  school  there.  Are  you 
going  to  put  all  this  in  the  paper?  " 

"Would  you  mind?" 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  mind.  It  is  very  forward  and 
unmaidenly,  is  it  not,  to  permit  one's  self  to  be  dragged 
into  print?  " 

"  It  is,"  said  Magnus  Laurens,  his  shrewd  eyes  twink 
ling,  "and  about  one  hundred  and  one  maidens  out  of 
every  hundred  just  love  it,  according  to  my  observations." 

"  I  do  not  think  that  I  should  object,"  said  Miss  Ames 
calmly.  "In  fact  I  should  be  curious  to  see  what  you 
would  say  about  me." 


12  COMMON  CAUSE 

That  was  Jeremy  Robson's  first  intimation  of  her 
unique  frankness  of  attitude  toward  herself  as  toward  all 
other  persons  and  things. 

"We  are  on  our  way  to  the  hotel  where  Mrs.  Laurens 
is  waiting  for  us,"  explained  the  water-power  dictator. 
"Why  not  walk  along  with  us  while  you  conclude  the 
interview?" 

"  I  have  n't  much  more  to  ask  Miss  Ames,"  said  the 
reporter,  complying,  "except  what  started  her  on  her 
patriotic  habit." 

"My  father  was  an  army  officer,"  she  explained. 
"While  he  was  alive  we  always  stood  up  together.  Now  I 
could  no  more  sit  through  'The  Star-Spangled  Banner' 
than  you  would  wear  your  hat  in  church.  But  I  really  do 
not  see  anything  to  write  about  in  that.  There  was  much, 
surely,  more  interesting  at  the  meeting." 

"What,  for  instance?" 

"The  whole  affair,"  she  said  vaguely.  "It  seemed  to 
me  strange.  What  are  "so  many  German  subjects  doing 
over  here?" 

"Those  aren't  German  subjects,  my  dear,"  said  Mr. 
Laurens.  "They're  American  citizens,  mostly." 

"  Surely  not ! "  exclaimed  the  girl.  "  The  German  flags, 
and  the  pictures  of  the  Emperor,  and  all  the  talk  about 
the  German  spirit,  and  —  and  '  Deutschland  fiber  alles.' 
From  Americans  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  reporter.   "And  good  ones." 

"  I  should  think  they  would  better  be  called  good  Ger 
mans.  One  cannot  imagine  that  sort  of  thing  occurring  in 
a  German  city.  I  mean  if  the  case  were  reversed,  and 
Americans  wanted  to  hold  such  a  meeting." 

"No?  What  would  happen?" 


COMMON  CAUSE  13 

"Verboten.  L£se-majeste.  Anti-imperialismus.  Some 
thing  dreadful  of  that  sort." 

"They  aren't  as  broad-minded  in  such  things  as  we 
are,"  observed  Mr.  Laurens,  in  a  tone  which,  caused  young 
Jeremy  Robson  to  glance  at  him  curiously  and  then  be 
come  thoughtful. 

"  Did  you  notice  that  fat  and  glossy  person  on  the 
stage,  the  one  who  had  just  made  that  speech  —  what 
was  his  name?  Bausch,  I  think  —  did  you  notice  his  pat 
ronizing  grin  when  you  got  up,  Mr.  Laurens?  As  if  he  felt 
a  calm  superiority  to  your  second-rate  patriotism." 

"What  a  malicious  young  person!"  said  Laurens. 
"There's  really  no  harm  in  Bausch  that  can't  be  blown 
off  like  froth  from  beer." 

"  I  suppose  there  is  a  story  in  all  that,"  ruminated 
young  Jeremy  Robson :  "  if  I  had  the  sense  to  see  it.  May 
be  it  would  take  a  historian's  mind  instead  of  a  reporter's 
to  see  it  right.  But  I  think  I  can  get  some  of  it  into  my 
*  Star-Spangled  Banner'  story." 

"  Good  luck  to  you  and  it,  then,"  said  Magnus  Laurens 
cordially.  "  I'd  like  to  see  some  one  in  this  town  at  this 
time  point  out  that,  after  all,  America  is  America." 

"  Would  you?  "  said  the  girl.  "  Walk  around  to  the  next 
block  and  I  will  show  you  what  I  saw  this  morning  as  I 
passed." 

They  followed  her  around  the  corner  and  stopped  be 
fore  a  tiny  shop  with  a  giant's  boot  swinging  in  front  of  it. 
The  legend  over  the  door  read : 


Boot  &  Shoe  Infirmary 
Eli  Wade,  Surgeon 


14  COMMON  CAUSE 

Across  the  window  was  stretched  a  brand-new  Ameri 
can  flag,  and  beneath  it  a  second  legend,  roughly  inked  on 
packing-paper  and  secured  to  the  glass  with  cobbler's  wax: 


The  Flag  of  Our  Country.  It  stands  alone. 


Two  beribboned,  bespangled,  bebadged  German  Feder 
ates  passed  near  them,  and  paused. 

"That  is  the  man  who  refused  to  decorate  with  our  col 
ors,"  said  one,  in  German. 

"Pfui!"  said  the  second  contemptuously,  "'s  machts 
nichts.  Matters  noding!" 

Jeremy  Robson  took  off  his  hat  and  made  his  adieus. 
"You've  given  me  something  to  think  about,"  he  said, 
apportioning  his  acknowledgment  impartially,  though 
his  eyes  were  on  the  strange  and  alluring  face  of  Marcia 
Ames.  "  Good-bye,  and  thank  you." 

"  If  you're  grateful  for  being  made  to  think,"  returned 
Magnus  Laurens,  good-humoredly,  "there's  hope  for  you 
as  a  reporter  yet.  That's  a  good-looking  boy,"  he  added 
to  his  companion,  as  the  young  man  turned  away. 

"Good-looking?"  she  repeated,  with  a  rising  inflection 
that  controverted  the  opinion. 

"Oh,  not  a  young  Adonis.  But  there's  something  un 
der  that  thatch  of  hair  of  his  or  I  'm  no  guesser.  Grit,  and 
purpose,  and,  I  think,  honesty.  I  hope  he  does  n't  make 
hash  of  us  in  his  paper." 

Allowing  himself  an  hour  and  a  half,  the  reporter 
turned  out  in  that  time  what  he  firmly  believed  to  be  "  a 
pippin  of  a  story."  After  delivering  the  final  page  to  an 
approving  copy-reader  he  washed  up,  got  his  coat  and 


COMMON  CAUSE  15 

hat  and  started  for  the  door.  In  the  hallway  he  came  upon 
Senator  Martin  Embree,  just  closing  a  conversation  with 
Farley,  the  editor-in-chief. 

"No  politics  in  this,  you  know,"  the  Senator  was  say 
ing,  in  his  sunny  voice. 

"  I  understand,"  said  Farley.   "  If  there  were  —  " 

"We'd  probably  be  on  opposite  sides  as  usual.  This  is 
simply  a  case  of  not  stirring  up  useless  ill-feeling." 

"Quite  right.  And  we're  much  obliged  to  you.  As 
long  as  The  Guardian  won't  touch  it,  you  can  rely 
on  us." 

"  I  was  sure  I  could."  The  Senator  turned  and  came 
face  to  face  with  the  reporter.  "  Hello,  Mr.  Robson,"  he 
said  with  his  enveloping  smile,  and  Jeremy  went  on  feel 
ing  that  the  world  was  a  more  friendly  place,  for  having 
encountered  that  expression  of  human  good- will. 

He  descended  into  Fenchester's  main  street.  For  the 
day,  it  might  have  been  a  foreign  city.  It  was  all  aflutter 
with  streamers  inscribed  "  Wilkommen  "  followed  by  sun 
dry  German  tags.  German  speech  crossed  German  speech 
in  the  humming  air.  German  faces,  moist,  heavy-hued, 
good-humored,  were  lifted  to  the  insignia  of  the  various 
Bunds,  Vereins,  Gesellschafts,  and  Kranzes,  all  pledged 
to  the  fostering  and  maintenance  of  a  tenacious  and  irre 
concilable  foreign  culture  in  the  carelessly  hospitable  land 
which  they  had  adopted  as  their  own.  Over  streets,  resi 
dences,  stores,  public  buildings  waved  the  banners  of 
imperial  Germany. 

Far  above  it  all,  from  the  dome  of  the  capitol,  floated 
the  Stars  and  Stripes.  The  flag  represented  a  formality. 
It  meant  nothing  in  particular  to  anybody,  except  that 
the  Legislature  was  then  in  session.  Weaving  in  the 


16  COMMON  CAUSE 

languid  air,  it  seemed  remote,  lonely,  occluded  from  the 
jovial  fellowship  of  the  swarming  Teuton  colors.  For  the 
time,  at  least,  it  had  been  put  aside  from  men's  minds.  It 
was  an  alien  in  the  land  whose  sons  had  died  for  it,  and 
would  again  die  for  it  in  a  day  drawing  inevitably  nearer. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  pippin  of  a  story  never  ripened  into  print. 
Young  Mr.  Robson's  formal  report  of  the  meeting, 
a  staid  bit  of  journalism,  appeared  in  full.  But  not  a 
word  of  that  brilliant  pen-picture  which  he  had  so  af 
fectionately  worked  out.  With  a  flaccid  hope  that  there 
might  have  been  a  mistake  somewhere,  its  author  perused 
the  columns  of  The  Record  a  second  time.  Nothing! 
Perhaps,  whispered  hope,  they  had  held  it  over.  Being  of 
the  "sketch"  order,  it  was  good  at  any  time.  Daring 
greatly,  he  invaded  the  editorial  sanctum  where  the 
proof -hooks  hang.  On  the  second  he  found  his  work  of 
art.  Upon  the  margin  was  rubber-stamped  a  single  word: 

"Killed." 

Young  Jeremy  Robson  felt  as  if  that  lethal  monosylla 
ble  had  been  simultaneously  imprinted  upon  his  journal 
istic  ambitions.  Like  salt  to  the  smart  of  his  professional 
hurt  came  another  thought.  What  would  Miss  Marcia 
Ames  think  of  him  when  she  opened  the  paper  and  found 
nothing  of  the  promised  article  there?  Would  there  be 
disappointment  in  the  depths  of  those  disturbing  eyes? 
Or  —  more  probable  and  intolerable  supposition  —  laugh 
ter  at  the  expense  of  the  young  cockerel  of  a  reporter  who 
had  crowed  so  confidently  about  what  he  was  going  to 
do?  Happily  for  the  reporter's  immediate  future,  Mr. 
Farley  had  departed.  For,  were  that  mild,  editorial  gen 
tleman  still  available  for  the  purpose,  young  Jeremy 
Robson  had  straightway  bearded  him  in  his  lair,  demanded 
an  explanation,  denounced  him  as  a  soggy-souled  Philis- 


18  COMMON  CAUSE 

tine,  thrown  his  job  in  his  teeth,  and  if  he  had  exhibited 
symptoms  of  being  "snooty"  (the  word  is  of  young  Mr. 
Robson's  off-duty  hours,  and  he  must  be  responsible 
therefor),  bunged  him  one  in  the  eye. 

At  which  critical  point  young  Mr.  Robson  came  to  and 
laughed  at  himself,  albeit  somewhat  ruefully.  It  was  his 
saving  grace  that  already  he  had  learned  to  laugh  at  him 
self.  Many  an  equally  high-spirited  youngster  has  gone 
to  the  devil,  because  he  let  the  devil  get  in  his  laugh 
first. 

"Souvenir  of  a  lost  masterpiece,'*  observed  Jeremy, 
folding  the  galley  for  accommodation  to  his  pocket.  He 
decided  to  take  his  medicine ;  to  say  no  word  of  the  mat 
ter  to  any  one,  though  he  would  mightily  have  liked  to 
know  why  the  story  was  killed. 

His  resolution  of  silence  was  abandoned  as  the  result 
of  a  meeting  with  Andrew  Galpin  on  the  following  morn 
ing.  The  Guardian  man  accosted  him: 

"  Did  n't  see  your  'Star-Spangled1  story,  Bo." 

"No." 

"What  became  of  it?" 

"  Killed.  What  became  of  yours?  " 

"  Did  n'tr  write  any." 

"Why  not?" 

"I'm  a  reporter;  that's  why.  Why  queer  your  paper 
by  writing  American  stuff  on  a  German  day ! " 

"Think  that's  why  my  stuff  was  killed?"  asked  Rob- 
son,  impressed. 

"Ay-ah,"  assented  Galpin.   "  What  did  you  think?  "    • 

"  I  thought  perhaps  it  was  n't  good  enough." 

"Bunk!"  said  the  downright  Galpin.  "You  did  n't 
think  it  at  all." 


COMMON  CAUSE  19 

"Well,  I  didn't,''  admitted  his  junior,  reddening.  "I 
read  it  over  in  proof.  I  think  it's  dam'  good." 

"That's  the  talk!  Got  a  proof  with  you?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Let's  see."  Galpin  leaned  against  a  convenient  railing, 
and  proceeded  to  absorb,  rather  than  read,  the  two-thirds 
column,  with  the  practiced  swiftness  of  his  craft.  "Ay 
ah.  You  're  right,"  he  corroborated.  "  It  is  dam'  good." 

"  But  not  good  enough  for  The  Record." 

"Too  good.   It's  got  too  much  guts." 

Jeremy  Robson  repeated  the  rugged  Saxon  word  in  a 
tone  of  uncomprehending  inquiry. 

"Too  American,"  expounded  the  other.  "Too  much 
'  This-is-our-country-and-don't-you-forget-it '  in  it." 

"Show  me  one  line  where  —  " 

"  It's  between  the  lines.  You  could  n't  keep  it  out  with 
barbed  wire.  You're  no  reporter,"  said  Andrew  Galpin 
severely.  "What  d'  you  think  you're  writing  for  The 
Record?  Poetry?" 

" Look  here! "  said  the  bewildered  Robson.  "  You  just 
said  it  was  good  and  now  —  " 

"And  now  I'm  telling  you  it's  rotten.  Punk!  As 
newspaper  work,  for  The  Record.  Or  any  other  paper 
hereabouts  on  this  great  and  glorious  German  day.  Why, 
it'd  spoil  the  breakfast  beer  of  every  good  and  superior 
citizen  of  German  birth  and  extraction  that  read  it." 

"Then  they  are  n't  any  sort  of  Americans  if  they  can't 
stand  that!" 

"'Bah'  said  Mary's  little  lamb  to  Mary,"  observed 
Mr.  Galpin  impolitely.  "  Who  said  they  were  Americans? 
Did  you  hear  much  American  at  that  meeting?  Did  you 
catch  any  loud  and  frenzied  cheering  for  the  red,  white, 


20  COMMON  CAUSE 

and  blue,  or  get  your  eyesight  overcrowded  with  photo 
graphs  of  the  American  eagle?  Did  you  mistake  the  pic 
ture  of  the  gent  with  the  wild-boar  whiskerines  for  a  new 
photo  of  His  Excellency,  the  President  of  the  United 
States?  Did  you  —  " 

"Oh,  cut  it!"  said  the  exasperated  Robson. 

"  Ay-ah "  grunted  Galpin,  and  studied  the  younger 
man.  "  Sore?  "  he  inquired  carelessly. 

"  A  little,  I  guess." 

"Like  to  kick  a  hole  in  The  Record  shop,  and  walk 
haughtily  out  through  it?" 

"That's  the  way  I  felt  yesterday." 

"  Want  a  job  on  The  Guardian?  " 

"  Could  yourget  me  on?  " 

"  I  can  take  you  on.  Beginning  Monday,  I  'm  city  editor. 
I  could  use  one  guy  that  can  write."  He  glanced  again 
at  the  killed  proof,  before  folding  it  to  return  to  its  owner. 

A  thought  struck  the  reporter.  "  Will  you  print  this?  " 

"Lord;  no!" 

"  The  Guardian  would  n't  be  any  more  independent  or 
any  less  timid  about  this  than  The  Record?  " 

"  Not  a  bit." 

"  Then  why  do  you  advise  me  to  change?  " 

"  I  don't." 

"  But  you  offered  —  " 

"  Stop  right  there  while  you  're  still  on  the  track.  I  of 
fered.  I  did  n't  advise.  If  you 're  in  this  business  to  write 
what  you  want,  and  to  hell  with  the  public,  I've  got  just 
one  piece  of  advice  for  you.  Turn  millionaire  and  get  a 
paper  of  your  own." 

Jeremy  flushed.  "  I  may  do  it  yet.  Not  the  millionaire 
part,  but  the  other." 


COMMON  CAUSE  21 

"  Give  me  a  job,  then,"  said  the  other  good-humoredly, 
11  as  you  won't  take  one  from  me.  If  you  should  want  it, 
it 's  twenty  a  week  to  start.  Not  bad  for  a  town  of  70,000, 
Bo." 

"  The  Record 's  promised  me  better.  I  guess  I  '11  stay." 

"Ay-ah."  Galpin  accepted  the  decision  indifferently. 
"Well,  I  guess  you'll  get  somewhere  sometime  if  you 
don't  go  bucking  your  head  against  stone  walls.  But 
don't  waste  your  poetic  style  on  patriotic  kids  who  stand 
nobly  up  in  galleries  for  the  honor  of  the  flag." 

"That  kid  was  a  girl." 

"So  I  noticed  in  your  story.  Think  I  know  her." 

"  Do  you?  "  cried  the  other  eagerly. 

"  Only  as  far  as  business  requires.  She's  going  to  make 
newspaper  copy  one  of  these  days." 

"How's  that?" 

"Only  girl  intercollegiate  athlete  in  America,"  replied 
Galpin  in  the  manner  of  a  headline.  "  Trying  for  the  golf- 
team,  and  from  what  I  hear,  liable  to  make  it." 

"At  Old  Central?"  asked  Robson,  using  the  local 
name  for  the  State  University  of  Centralia,  on  the  out 
skirts  of  Fenchester. 

"Ay-ah,"  assented  Galpin.  "She's  a  special.  Lives 
down  on  Montgomery  Street  with  old  Miss  Pritchard." 

His  companion  made  a  mental  note  of  it. 

"  Were  n't  you  a  golf-sharp  in  Kirk  College?  " 

"Captained  the  team." 

"  Well,  if  you  really  want  to  write  a  story  about  Miss 
Marcia  Ames,  watch  out  for  the  team  trials  next  month. 
The  Record  '11  print  that  all  right.  Ay-ah,"  he  added  re 
flectively.  "And  there'll  be  no  spiking  of  the  story  by 
Mart  Embree,  either." 


22  COMMON  CAUSE 

"Senator  Embree?"  said  Robson,  surprised.  "Where 
does  he  come  in?" 

"  Did  n't  happen  to  see  him  around  The  Record  office 
before  you  went  to  press  yesterday,  did  you?  " 

"Yes,  I  did." 

"  Ay-ah.  Thought  he  might  V  dropped  in.  He  made  a 
call  on  The  Guardian  too." 

"What  for?" 

"  Dove-o'-peace  mission.  Wanted  to  make  sure  that 
nothing  would  get  in  about  the  'Star-Spangled'  business 
to  stir  up  ill-feeling." 

There  rose  in  Jeremy  Robson's  mind  the  recollection  of 
Farley's  assurance  to  Embree,  "You  can  rely  on  us;" 
which  he  had  not  before  connected  with  his  slain  master 
piece.  Now  he  perceived  with  indignation  that  it  had 
been  slaughtered  to  save  a  German  holiday,  at  the  hands 
of  the  Honorable  Martin  Embree. 

" He's  the  one  that  put  a  crimp  in  my  story,  is  he! " 

"Not  necessarily,"  qualified  The  Guardian  man. 
"  Probably  they  would  n't  have  run  it  anyway.  But  he 
wanted  to.be  sure.  That's  Smiling  Martin's  way.  You 
don't  catch  him  missing  many  tricks." 

"What's  his  interest?" 

"Just  to  smooth  things  over  and    keep  everything 
lovely.    Rasping  up  the  comfortable  Dutchers  would  n't 
do  anybody  any  good,  according   to   his  figuring,  and 
would  only  make  things  unpleasant." 
*  "Apussyfooter,  eh?" 

"Don't  you  believe  it,"  returned  Galpin.  "Martin 
Embree  will  fight  and  fight  like  the  devil  when  he  sees 
good  cause  for  it.  How  else  do  you  think  he  could  have 
got  where  he  is?  " 


COMMON  CAUSE  23 

"  I  don't  know,"  retorted  the  younger  man  sullenly. 
"  But  I  don't  see  where  he  comes  in  to  interfere  with  me." 

"Ask  him." 

"  I  will.  Where  can  I  find  him?  " 

"As  quick  as  all  that! "  commented  The  Guardian  re 
porter.  He  noted  a  hardening  of  the  small  muscles  at  the 
corner  of  Robson's  mouth.  "Scrappy  little  feller,  ain't 
you!" 

"Thanks,"  said  Jeremy  Robson,  with  his  sudden, 
pleasant  grin.  "  I  get  what  you  mean.  Don't  think  I  'm 
going  to  make  a  fool  of  myself.  Just  the  same  I  will  ask 
him,  if  you'll  tell  me  where  I  can  catch  him." 

"  Round  at  Trask's  boarding-house,  after  dinner,  most 
likely.  That's  where  he  lives." 

At  Trask's  that  evening  Jeremy  Robson  ascended 
through  a  clinging  aroma  of  cookery,  to  a  third-floor 
room,  very  tiny,  very  tidy,  very  much  overcrowded  with 
books,  pamphlets,  a  cot,  and  the  spare  squareness  of  the 
Honorable  Martin  Embree.  The  visitor  was  somewhat 
surprised  at  finding  a  political  leader  of  such  prominence 
so  frugally  housed.  Embree  sat  at  a  small  table,  making 
notes  from  a  federal  report  on  railroad  earnings.  He 
lifted  his  head  and  Robson  noted  a  single  splash  of  gray 
in  the  brown  hair  that  waved  luxuriantly  up  from  the 
broad  forehead.  His  meetings  with  the  Northern  Tier 
leader  had  been  casual :  so  he  had  been  the  more  flattered 
at  Embree's  ready  recognition  on  the  previous  evening. 
Now  he  was  struck  anew  with  the  soft,  almost  womanish 
brilliance  of  the  prominent  eyes,  and  the  sense  of  power  in 
the  upper  part  of  the  face,  sharpening  down  into  shrewd 
ness,  in  the  mouth  and  chin.  A  thoroughly  attractive 
face,  and  more  than  that,  a  winning  as  well  as  an  impres- 


24  COMMON  CAUSE 

sive  personality.  Embree  smiled  as  he  greeted  his  caller 
by  name,  and  the  reporter  suddenly  felt  all  the  animus 
ooze  from  his  purpose.  He  still  wanted  to  know  the  why 
and  wherefore  of  Embree's  action.  But  his  interest  in 
knowing  was  equally  apportioned  between  himself  and 
his  adversary.  Characteristically,  Jeremy  went  straight 
to  the  point. 

"  I  came  to  find  out  why  you  got  The  Record  to  kill  my 
story." 

"Sit  down."  The  Senator  relinquished  his  chair,  mo 
tioned  his  visitor  to  it,  and  seated  himself  on  the  edge  of 
the  cot.  "Your  story?  What  story  was  that?  " 

"Why,  about  the  band  playing  'The  Star-Spangled 

Banner'  and  Miss and  just  two  people  standing  up 

for  it." 

"Was  it  your  story?  I'm  sorry  if  it  was  killed."  Em* 
bree's  tone  was  of  the  simplest  sincerity.  "  But  it  really 
was  n't  my  doing.  I  only  suggested  to  Mr.  Farley  that  a 
mishandling  of  the  episode  might  create  an  unfortunate 
impression  and  incidentally  reflect  upon  The  Record. 
You  know  how  sensitive  our  German -Americans  are." 

"  It'd  be  better  for  us  if  we  American- Americans  were 
a  little  more  sensitive,"  blurted  Robson. 

"You're  wholly  right,  Mr.  Robson.  I  wish  more  of  us 
had  the  spirit  of  that  young  lady  in  the  gallery.  What  a 
gallant  little  figure  she  was ;  something  knightly  and  val 
orous  about  her!  And  she,  all  alone." 

"There  was  Mr.  Laurens,"  suggested  Robson. 

"Quite  another  matter.  For  political  effect  only,  and 
not  in  the  best  of  taste,  I  thought.  If  the  chairman  had  n't 
been  a  numskull  he  would  have  called  the  whole  audience 
to  its  feet,  and  the  matter  would  have  been  a  graceful  and 


COMMON  CAUSE  25 

pleasant  and  patriotic  incident.  But  Felder  is  a  blunder 
head.  He  stopped  the  music.  I  would  have  got  the  people 
up,  myself,  in  another  two  seconds." 

"Senator,  you  understand  the  Germans,"  said  the  re 
porter,  reverting  to  his  central  interest.  "I'd  like  you  to 
read  this  and  tell  me  if  it  would  have  given  offense  to  any 
decently  loyal  German- American." 

Martin  Embree  to. ok  the  proofs,  and  leaned  forward 
under  the  lamp  to  read  them.  What  Andrew  Galpin 
had  absorbed,  almost  in  a  glance,  the  politician  plodded 
through  with  exasperating  slowness.  Impatience  gave 
way  to  interest  in  the  reporter's  mind,  however,  when  he 
perceived  that  his  reader  was  perusing  the  galley  a  sec 
ond  time  over. 

"Well?  "  he  inquired,  as  Embree  raised  his  head. 

The  Senator's  fine  smile  enveloped  him.  "Frankly,  it 
wouldn't  do." 

"What's  wrong?" 

"Too  much  fervor." 

"  It's  American  fervor." 

"True.  But  it's  exclusively  American.  '  All  the  rest  of 
you  not  born  Americans,  be  damned ! '  It 's  —  well  — 
uncharitable." 

The  writer's  color  deepened.   "  You  mean  it 's  unfair." 

"Not  intentionally.  But  there  are  phrases  in  there 
that  sneer." 

"They  could  be  edited  out." 

"Not  so  easily.  I  don't  think  your  writing  would  be 
easy  to  edit,  Mr.  Robson.  It  hangs  together  pretty  tight. 
But,  so  far  as  this  is  concerned,  I  can  plead  'Not  guilty' 
to  being  an  accomplice.  I  'm  sure  Mr.  Farley  would  never 
have  let  it  get  into  print." 


26  COMMON  CAUSE 

4   "It  was  all  set  up." 

"But  not  OK'd,  I  assume.  You  see,  Mr.  Robson,  one 
must  live  among  our  Germans  to  understand  them. 
They're  the  best  people  in  the  world  and  the  highest- 
minded  citizens.  Germany  is  n't  a  nation  to  them.  It's  a 
sentiment.  It 's  El  Dorado.  It 's  music  and  poetry  and  art 
and  literature  —  and  a  fairy-land.  Lay  a  profane  hand 
on  it,  and  they're  as  sensitive  as  children,  and  as  sulky. 
But  at  heart  they're  just  as  sound  Americans  as  you  or 
I,  and  in  politics  they're  always  for  the  right  and  clean 
and  progressive  thing.  All  they  need  is  to  be  humored  in 
their  harmless  and  rather  silly  sentimentalism.  You  see, 
I'm  talking  to  you  quite  frankly.'* 

"And  I  appreciate  it,  Senator." 

"Well,  I  appreciate  having  seen  this."  Embree  tapped 
the  proof  with  the  back  of  his  finger.  "Apart  from  the 
substance  of  it,  I  'm  interested.  I  'm  mightily  interested." 

Jeremy  Robson  met  his  direct,  intent  gaze  and  waited. 

"If  I  know  anything  about  writing,  you  can  write. 
There's  stuff  in  this.  It's  a  real  picture.  Perhaps  there 
was  a  touch  of  inspiration,  too."  His  face  became  sunny 
again  with  its  conquering  smile.  "Did  you  know  Miss 
Ames?" 

"Not  before  the  interview  with  her."  To  his  annoyance 
Jeremy  Robson  felt  his  face  grow  hot.  Had  he  written 
that  between  the  lines,  too? 

"No?  A  gallant  figure.  Young  America;  the  imper 
ishable  spirit.  Do  you  think  you  could  write  like  that  — 
without  special  inspiration?"  he  demanded  abruptly. 

"It's  the  best  story  I've  done  yet.  But  I  can  beat  it, 
when  I've  had  more  experience." 

"Then  this  town  is  going  to  be  too  small  for  you." 


COMMON  CAUSE  27 

There  was  no  tone  of  patronage  or  flattery  in  the  rich, 
even  voice.  "Were  you  thinking  of  staying  here?"  ,- 

"Until  I  learn  the  ropes.   I  want  to  own  a  pa — " 

Jeremy  Robson  stopped  short.  Why  should  he  be  con 
fiding  his  ambitions  to  this  stranger,  to  whom  he  owed 
nothing,  unless  an  injury? 

"A  paper  of  your  own,"  concluded  Embree.  He  fell 
thoughtful.  "Ever  write  any  editorials?  "  he  asked  pres 
ently. 

"No." 

"Why  don't  you  try  it?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  never  thought  of  it." 

"Think  of  it  now." 

"Reporters  aren't  supposed  to  go  outside  their  own 
department." 

"Pshaw!  A  newspaper  is  like  any  other  business;  it 
needs  all  the  ability  it  can  command.  Now,  I  believe  you 
could  write  editorials.  And  if  you  care  to  try,  I  '11  be  glad 
to  speak  a  word  to  Mr.  Farley." 

"That's  mighty  good  of  you,  Senator." 

"Not  at  all.  Gives  me  a  chance  to  set  myself  right  in 
your  mind,"  smiled  the  other,  "for  appearing  to  inter 
fere  with  your  activities.  We  need  a  new  paper,  a  new 
kind  of  paper  here  in  the  capital,"  he  added  after  another 
of  his  pauses. 

Jeremy  Robson  became  uncomfortable.  "I  guess  I've 
been  talking  thror.gh  my  hat,"  he  confessed.  "It  must 
take  a  lot  of  capital  to  buy  a  newspaper." 

"Not  so  much,  for  a  small-city  plant." 

"More  than  I'll  ever  see,  though." 

"If  the  right  man  came  to  light  and  proved  himself,  he 
might  find  backing.  That's  why  I  take  an  interest  in  the 


28  COMMON  CAUSE 

local  newspaper  situation.  It's  only  a  question  of  the 
right  man.  We're  looking  for  him." 

"  I  'd  like  to  be  that  man,"  blurted  the  caller. 

"But  are  you?  That's  the  question."  The  Senator's 
fine  eyes  twinkled.  But  his  tone  was  serious  enough. 

"How  should  I  know,  myself?  I've  only  had  a  few 
months'  experience.  Unless  you  count  college  journal 
ism." 

"I  do,"  answered  the  other  unexpectedly.  "A  client  of 
mine  is  a  trustee  of  Kirk  College.  I  had  occasion  to  follow 
the  Kirk-Bell's  attacks  on  the  Board  in  the  intercollegi 
ate  football  mix-up.  You  were  editing  The  Bell,  I  be 
lieve." 

"Yes,"  admitted  Robson.  "I  guess  we  were  a  pretty 
brash  lot." 

"All  of  that.  And  you  were  quite  wrong.  But  you 
were  fighting  for  what  you  thought  a  principle,  and  I 
liked  the  way  you  fought."  He  put  up  a  large,  well- 
kempt  hand  and  pushed  a  wave  of  hair  back  from  his  fore 
head.  "I'm  fighting  for  a  principle  here." 

"Political?"  said  Jeremy  Robson. 

"Do  politics  interest  you?" 

"They  make  me  sick,"  returned  the  reporter  vigor 
ously. 

"That's  bad.  Why?" 

"  Because  of  the  cheap  skates  and  dumheads  I  run  into 
whenever  I  get  a  legislative  job." 

"On  behalf  of  myself  and  my  colleagues,  I  thank 
you." 

Jeremy  Robson  blushed.  "Well,  you  know  I  don't 
mean  you,  Senator." 

"  Possibly  some  of  my  associates  are  shrewder  than  you 


COMMON  CAUSE  29 

give  them  credit  for  being.  But  the  State  Legislature 
is  n't  politics.  It's  only  the  sieve  through  which  politics 
pass.  If  you're  not  interested  in  politics,  the  newspaper 
business  is  n't  your  line." 

"I  did  n't  say  I  was  n't  interested  in  politics." 

"True  enough.  You  did  n't."  Embree  shot  one  of  his 
reckoning  glances  at  the  young  fellow.  "Well,  if  you  can 
prove  yourself  —  if  you  can  fight  as  well  as  you  write  and 
write  as  hard  as  you  fight  —  you're  going  to  be  worth 
keeping  an  eye  on.  And  I  'm  going  to  keep  an  eye  on  you 
for  my  own  reasons." 

"I'll  remember  that,"  said  the  reporter,  rising,  "when 
I  come  to  try  my  hand  at  editorial  writing." 

"Sit  down.  Unless  you've  got  some  engagement." 
Jeremy  shook  his  head.  "I  want  to  talk  to  you  a  little 
more."  Another  of  those  pauses,  which  gave  the  effect  of 
being  filled  with  considered  thinking.  "About  myself," 
finished  the  Honorable  Martin  Embree. 

The  visitor  resumed  his  seat. 

"Do  you  read  your  own  paper?" 

"Every  word  of  it,  every  day." 

"Then  you  see  an  occasional  editorial  about  your  hum 
ble  servant." 

"Yes."  Jeremy  began  to  feel  uncomfortable.  The 
Record's  editorial  attitude  toward  the  Honorable  Martin 
Embree  was,  to  put  it  mildly,  unsympathetic.  "I  was 
surprised  to  see  you  in  the  office,"  he  added  bluntly. 

"Did  you  think  I  was  as  thin-skinned  as  that?"  Em- 
bree's  smile  was  good-humor  itself.  "Politically,  Farley 
is  my  enemy.  Personally,  we  get  along  pleasantly.  In 
his  heart  he  knows  I  'm  right,"  announced  the  Senator 
from  the  Northern  Tier,  with  calm  assurance. 


30  COMMON  CAUSE 

"Then  why  does  n't  he  say  so?" 

"He's  only  a  hired  man." 

"He's  editor-in-chief." 

"By  title.  The  real  boss  is  Clarence  Ensign." 

Jeremy  stared.  "How's  that?  I  thought  Mr.  Ensign 
was  nothing  but  a  traveling  millionaire." 

"So  he  is,  mostly.  But  he  owns  the  controlling  interest 
in  The  Record.  Absentee  landlordism.  It's  worse  in  a 
newspaper  than  in  a  mill,  because  a  newspaper  is  sup 
posed  to  be  representative  of  its  public.  Ensign's  news 
paper  represents  only  the  investments  which  let  him 
sport  around  the  fashionable  seaside  places  in  his  yacht. 
Because  I  'm  after  some  of  the  big  interests  that  pay  his 
graft-money,  The  Record  is  after  me.  It 's  all  part  of  the 
game." 

As  the  politician  proceeded  to  amplify  on  his  theme, 
Jeremy  Robson  became  thoughtful.  "See  here,  Senator," 
he  said  at  length,  "suppose  I  should  'prove  up,'  as  you 
say,  and  should  get  backing  for  a  paper,  I'd  be  just  a 
hired  man  for  my  backers,  would  n't  I?" 

"Not  if  you  were  strong  enough  to  make  yourself  the 
necessary  part  of  the  paper.  But  you  'd  have  to  believe  in 
the  policies  of  your  backers." 

"  I  don't  believe  I  could  believe  in  anything  I  had  to 
believe  in,"  returned  Jeremy  quaintly. 

"Correct  answer,"  approved  Embree  with  emphasis. 
"No  fellow  could  that's  worth  his  salt.  Anyway,  it 
does  n't  so  much  matter,  provided  you  believe  in  some 
thing  and  stick  to  your  belief  instead  of  singing  what 
ever  tune  you're  paid  or  ordered  to  sing."  Again,  one 
of  his  frequent  pauses.  "Like  The  Record  and  The 
Guardian." 


COMMON  CAUSE  31 

"The  Guardian,  too?" 

"Oh,  that's  worse.  The  Record  at  least  represents 
its  own  interests,  even  if  they  are  pretty  sordid.  The 
Guardian  is  anybody's  hired  man.  Do  you  know  Wy- 
mett,  the  editor?" 

"No." 

"He's  a  crook." 

"That's  a  short  and  ugly  word,  Senator." 

"Wymett's  a  short  and  ugly  animile.  Short  on  pay 
ment  of  his  obligations,  and  ugly  in  a  fight  because  you 
never  know  who  he  's  sold  to  last.  Though,  at  that"  — 
and  here  the  considering  pause  came  in  the  middle  of  the 
statement  —  "  you  can  be  pretty  sure  that  Montrose 
Clark  will  have  the  deciding  word." 

"  Is  that  the  President  of  the  Public  Utilities  Corpora 
tion?" 

" That's  the  man.   Know  him? " 

"  I  've  reported  him  at  meetings,  twice.  He  did  n't  say 
anything  much." 

"  He  never  does,  in  public  or  for  the  public.  What  did 
you  think  of  him?" 

"  I  thought  he  was  a  pompous  little  stuffed  shirt,"  was 
the  reporter's  irreverent  opinion. 

"He's  pompous  enough.  But  there's  brains  behind 
those  piggy  eyes  of  his.  We  were  talking  of  politics.  Well, 
Montrose  Clark  is  politics.  He's  politics,  big." 

"  I  would  have  thought  he  was  finance,  and  bluff." 

"  Finance,  of  course.  That  is  politics.  Let  me  give  you 
a  one-minute  synopsis  of  the  politics  of  this  State.  I  told 
you  the  Legislature  was  a  sieve.  Well,  the  men  that  feed 
and  shake  the  sieve  are  the  financial  and  public  utility  in 
terests;  Montrose  Clark  representing  the  traction  crowd, 


32  COMMON  CAUSE 

Magnus  Laurens  representing  the  water-power  grabbers, 
Robert  Wanser  representing  the  banks,  Sam  Corliess 
representing  the  lake  shipping,  Selden  Dana  represent 
ing  the  railroads,  and  so  on.  And  our  newspapers  are 
mostly  just  their  little  yellow  dogs,  useful  to  help  put  over 
their  deals  and  to  fool  the  people.  What  we  need,  and  we 
need  it  right  here  in  the  capital,  is  a  newspaper  that  will 
tell  the  people,  not  fool  them." 

"Who's 'we'?" 

The  Senator's  earnest  gaze  flickered  for  a  moment.  "I," 
he  said,  at  length.  "  I  'm  making  this  fight  pretty  near 
alone  so  far." 

"What  fight  is  that?" 

"The  fight  to  get  the  control  of  the  State  away  from 
the  grafters  and  exploiters  and  turn  it  over  to  the  people. 
And  I  'm  beginning  to  get  the  support  I  need  now." 

"  From  the  German  crowd?  " 

The  Senator  smiled  at  his  caller  with  an  expression  al 
most  affectionate.  "You  would  n't  take  to  politics  much 
worse  than  a  duck  to  water.  Yes;  from  the  Germans 
largely.  I  'm  a  reformer,  and  I  'm  not  ashamed  of  the 
name.  The  German-Americans  are  solid  for  reform  and 
clean  government.  Government  by  corporations  is  never 
clean.  It  can't  be.  It  uses  the  kind  of  tools  that  Wymett 
is." 

"The  Guardian  has  offered  me  a  job,"  observed 
Jeremy. 

"Don't  touch  it,"  advised  the  other  earnestly.  "They 
're  on  the  ragged  edge.  As  I  told  you,  Wymett  is  a  crook. 
One  of  these  days  I'm  going  to  tell  the  State  that." 

"Maybe  I'll  be  there  to  report  it,"  said  the  caller, 
smiling. 


COMMON  CAUSE  33 

"Maybe  you'll  be  there  (you  should  work  into  the 
legislative  end,  by  the  way,  for  the  experience) ;  but  you 
won't  report  it.  Your  paper  would  print  any  attack  by 
Wymett  on  me  that  suited  its  purposes.  But  if  I  proved 
Wymett  to  be  a  crook  and  a  grafter  —  not  a  word  in  The 
Record.  That's  the  way  the  papers  hang  together." 

"Well,  that's  all  right,"  returned  Jeremy  stoutly. 
"Why  shouldn't  newspaper  men  stand  together?  Poli 
ticians  do." 

"You  feel  that  way  about  it?  "  The  Senator's  tone  was 
colder.  "It's  a  question  of  fair  play.  However"  —  the 
sunny  smile  returned  to  his  face  —  "we've  had  a  pretty 
straight  talk,  and  I  hope  I  've  given  you  something  to 
carry  away  with  you.  I  '11  admit  my  object  is  largely  self 
ish.  I  'm  looking  everywhere  for  the  man  who  can  even 
tually  make  a  newspaper  for  the  public.  It  won't  come  to 
morrow,  or  next  day.  But  it  '11  come  some  day.  It 's  got 
to.  And  don't  forget  that  editorial  writing.  Make  it 
mild,  at  first." 

Before  he  went  to  bed  that  night,  Jeremy  Robson  had 
sketched  out  three  editorials.  For  a  week  he  re-wrote  and 
re-cast  and  polished  them.  To  his  keen  satisfaction,  two 
of  them  were  accepted.  The  third,  which  touched  upon 
the  "Star-Spangled  Banner"  episode,  most  tactfully  and 
in  what  the  writer  deemed  to  be  the  broadest  and  most 
charitable  spirit,  was  turned  down.  Farley  encouraged 
him. 

"  Keep  it  up,  Robson.  As  soon  as  you  Ve  learned  our 
ways  you  '11  fit  into  the  page." 


CHAPTER  III 

"  Oh,  happier  he  who  gains  not 
The  Love  some  seem  to  gain: 
The  joy  that  custom  stains  not 
Shall  still  with  him  remain. 
The  loveliness  that  wanes  not, 
The  Love  that  ne'er  can  wane." 

THE  soft,  young  contralto  voice  floating  out  from 
the  old  house  on  Montgomery  Street,  mingled  with 
the  breath  of  roses  that  spread  possessively  over  the  ve 
randa.  A  ripple  of  sparkling  chords,  like  wind  passing 
over  water,  died  away  in  a  delicate  and  plaintive  minor 
cadence.  A  light  footstep  moved  within  the  house.  The 
voice,  now  not  more  than  a  clear  murmur,  hummed  in 
the  hallway.  Something  told  the  listener  and  lurker  on 
the  sidewalk  that  it  were  advisable  he  should  be  on  his 
way.  To  be  caught  staring,  gawking  and  explanation- 
less,  before  the  Wondrous  Maiden's  domicile  is  not  the 
happiest  method  of  producing  a  favorable  impression 
upon  the  Wondrous  Maiden,  which  latter  was  become 
the  immediate  and  predominant  purpose  of  young  Mr. 
Jeremy  Robson's  existence. 

He  passed  on.  After  a  score  or  more  of  paces  he  be 
gan  to  lag  and  waver.  Yet  an  undue  hesitancy  of  spirit 
had  never  been  reckonable  as  among  young  Mr.  Rob- 
son's  major  failings.  He  had  come  along  Montgomery 
Street,  which  is  a  free  public  thoroughfare  wherein  any 
and  all  may  pass,  without  let  or  hindrance,  upon  their 
lawful  occasions,  a  youth  upright  and  secure  of  himself. 
Nothing  more  formidable  had  marked  his  itinerary  than 


COMMON  CAUSE  35 

a  singularly  sweet  young  voice,  singing  to  an  unknown 
measure  the  words  of  Mr.  Andrew  Lang's  haunting  and 
wistful  lyric.  Yet  young  Mr.  Robson  became  instantly 
aware  of  strange  symptoms  within  himself.  His  pulse 
was  markedly  uneven.  His  eyes  were  affected  by  a 
spasmodic  inclination  which  all  but  twisted  his  neck 
about  in  the  opposite  direction  to  that  of  his  reluctant 
steps.  His  mind  was  a  kingdom  divided  against  itself. 

Arrived  at  the  corner  he  found  himself  racked  by  con 
flicting  muscular  intentions  and  inhibitions.  He  turned 
into  Nicklin  Avenue,  leading  downtown  to  his  proper 
occupation,  and  almost  immediately  executed  a  right 
about-face.  He  returned  to  the  corner,  and  rebounded 
from  the  impact  of  an  unreasoning  and  unmanning  fear. 
Again  he  retraced  his  steps  and  halted.  His  feet  gave  him 
the  painful  impression  of  a  divided  allegiance,  and  he  rec 
ognized  and  resented  the  invalidity  of  the  poet's  praise 
of  those  supposedly  useful  members: 

"  I  only  have  to  steer  'em,  and 
They  ride  me  every wheres." 

In  the  midst  of  his  confusion  he  became  hotly  aware  of 
the  surprised  scrutiny  of  a  small  boy  with  a  dog. 

"Lost  somethin'?"  inquired  the  small  boy,  scornfully. 

Jeremy  Robson  started.  Was  the  urchin  possessed  of 
the  spirit  of  divination?  Certainly  young  Mr.  Robson 
had  lost  his  nerve.  That  much  he  confessed  to  himself. 
The  small  boy's  dog  divined  the  fact  also.  He  made  a 
charge  upon  the  wavering  youth  with  the  evident  inten 
tion  of  chasing  him  up  a  tree.  To  be  flouted  in  the  open 
day  by  a  cur  of  highly  impeachable  antecedents  was  a 
little  too  much ! 


36  COMMON  CAUSE 

"Get  out!"  commanded  Jeremy  Robson,  in  a  tone 
which  left  no  room  for  doubt. 

The  small  boy  and  his  dog  retired  hastily.  Their  in 
tended  victim,  somewhat  reconstituted  in  soul  by  the 
victory,  clinched  his  final  decision,  not  indeed  without  a 
sinking  of  the  breath,  and  with  a  firm  tread  and  an  un 
wavering  eye  (as  he  had  once  written  of  an  unfortunate 
going  to  his  execution)  again  plunged  into  the  imminent, 
deadly  breach  of  Montgomery  Street,  and  headed  for  the 
old  house  amid  the  roses.  He  reckoned  that  she  would  be 
just  about  on  the  porch  now.  If  she  were  n't,  he  would  go 
on  past  and  make  for  the  office,  and  try  again  on  the 
morrow.  If  she  were  —  well,  he  had  recovered  command 
of  at  least  three  matured  and  plausible  lies  to  explain  his 
presence.  Then  he  saw  her,  and  the  lies  forsook  and  left 
him  stranded  with  nothing  better  than  the  truth  to  tell, 
if  the  issue  rose. 

She  was  standing  at  the  top  of  the  five  veranda  steps. 
An  errant  wind  weaving  among  the  roses  above  her,  let 
through  swift  glints  of  sunlight,  which  played  upon  her 
face  and  hair  with  fairy  touches.  There  was  a  dreamy 
and  wistful  smile,  as  in  lingering  memory  of  the  music 
she  had  sung,  upon  her  lips.  Her  face,  broad  at  the  tem 
ples  and  narrowing  down  to  a  small,  self-willed  chin,  was 
modeled  nearer  upon  the  sensitive  and  changeful  lines  of 
the  triangle  than  upon  the  cold  and  classic  oval.  Above  it 
the  splendid  mass  of  tawny  hair  was  hardly  kept  respecta 
bly  within  bounds  by  the  prisoning  devices  of  net  and 
band.  She  was  slender,  and  firm-set,  and  straight  with 
the  soft  and  strong  lines  of  young,  untainted  health  and 
vigor.  By  the  warm  hues,  and  the  lithe  poise  of  her, 
she  was  a  creature  bred  in  the  happy  usages  of  sunlight 


COMMON  CAUSE  37 

and  free  winds  and  the  open  spaces.  Again  he  felt  in 
her  that  subtle,  disturbing,  starry  quality  that  makes  for 
dreams. 

In  her  hand  she  swung  a  broad  sun-hat.  Reluctantly 
she  lifted  her  arms  to  set  it  on  her  head.  The  pulses 
of  Jeremy  Robson  made  a  bound  of  hopefulness.  Evi 
dently  she  was  coming  out  upon  the  street.  Her  eyes 
were  lifted  and  he  wondered  that  he  could  ever  have 
thought  them  gray,  so  flooded  were  they  with  hazel  lights 
as  they  met  the  radiance,  sifting  down  through  the  trees. 
She  turned  them  upon  him  and  a  slow  recognition  grew  in 
them.  Opening  the  gate,  she  stood  waiting.  He  lifted  his 
hat  as  he  approached. 

'  Good-morning,"  she  greeted  him  in  that  voice  which, 
with  its  indefinable  distinction  of  accent,  had  thrilled  in 
his  memory,  since  he  had  first  heard  her  speak. 

He  returned  her  greeting,  calling  her  by  name. 

"It  is  The  Record  you  write  for,  is  it  not?"  she  asked. 

"Yes.  But  they  don't  print  all  I  write." 

"So  I  infer,"  she  returned  with  grave  and  intent  eyes. 

"Were  you  disappointed?" 

"A  little." 

"I'm  sorry." 

"  I  supposed  that  you  had  made  up  your  mind  that  it 
was  not  worth  writing  after  all." 

"It  was  worth  writing." 

"But  not  worth  printing?" 

"Worth  printing,  too.  But  the  editors  were  afraid  of 
offending  the  Germans.  So  they  killed  it." 

"Did  you  write  it  in  that  way  ?" 

"What  way?" 

"To  offend  the  Germans." 


38  COMMON  CAUSE 

"No.  I  wrote  it  to  show  that  there  was  a  place  for 
Americanism  even  in  a  German  meeting." 

"  I  am  glad  you  did  that,"  she  said  quietly. 

"You've  a  right  to  be.  You're  responsible.  For  the 
way  I  wrote  it,  I  mean.  You  gave  me  the  notion." 

"I  am  glad  of  that,  too.  But  I  am  sorrier  than  ever 
that  I  did  not  see  your  article." 

"  Perhaps  I  '11  show  it  to  you  some  day." 

She  nodded,  without  asking  him  how  or  where.  Mar- 
cia  Ames  was  one  of  those  individuals  who  wait  unques- 
tioningly  and  accept  generously.  "It  is  quite  a  coinci 
dence  my  meeting  you  here,"  she  said.  "For  I  wished  to 
ask  you  about  the  article." 

Behold  the  path  now  made  plain  for  the  lurker  and  re- 
tracer  of  steps !  No  need  even  for  those  well-formulated 
lies;  he  could  simply  accept  the  theory  of  coincidence. 
And,  most  unaccountably,  he  found  that  he  could  n't. 
Perhaps  he  could  have,  had  he  not  looked  into  her  eyes 
just  then.  That  steady,  limpid,  candid,  confident  regard 
of  hers  forbade  even  a  petty  and  harmless  deceit  of  con 
venience.  Once  for  all  Jeremy  Robson  knew  that  what 
ever  might  be  between  them  in  future,  there  would  at 
least  be  truth.  And  with  a  sharp  pang,  felt  the  forebod 
ing  that  the  truth  might  yet  hurt  him  to  the  limit  of  his 
capacity  for  pain. 

"No,"  he  denied.   "No  coincidence." 

"Not?"  she  asked,  surprised. 

"I've  passed  here  every  day  for  the  last  ten  days." 

"Do  you  live  on  this  block?" 

"No.  In  the  other  end  of  town,  up  near  the  University." 

"Then  you  would  not  pass  here  to  go  to  The  Record 
office." 


COMMON  CAUSE  39 

"Your  geography  is  unimpeachable." 

"Is  it  a  riddle?  I  am  not  at  all  clever  at  them." 

"  It 's  a  confession.  I  've  been  coming  this  way  day 
after  day  for  a  particular  purpose." 

"What  was  it?" 

"To  see  you  again." 

"  What  did  you  wish  to  see  me  about?" 

"Nothing.   Nothing  in  particular." 

"Just  to  see  me?  That  is  very  nice  of  you."  She  stud 
ied  him  with  her  direct  and  serene  regard.  But  a  small 
and  willful  dimple  materialized  on  the  brown  curve  of  her 
cheek,  and  a  little  one-sided  smile  went  up  to  meet  it. 
"Not  as  a  reporter  this  time?" 

"Not  in  the  least.  A  reporter  may  be  just  an  ordinary 
human  being,  off  duty,  you  know." 

"Are  you  just  an  ordinary  human  being?" 

"Very  much  so.  Don't  I  strike  you  that  way?"  His 
tone  was  one  of  exaggerated  anxiety. 

The  girl  studied  him  with  impersonal  interest,  quite 
free  from  embarrassment.  Magnus  Laurens  had  credited 
him  with  good  looks.  In  the  usual  sense,  Miss  Ames  de 
cided,  confirming  her  first  opinion,  he  was  not  entitled 
to  this  credit.  He  was  rather  rugged  of  build  and  face, 
with  mobile  lips,  boyish  and  pleasant  eyes,  an  obstinate 
jaw  which  looked  as  if  it  might  set  to  courage  and  endur 
ance  or  perhaps  to  sullenness,  and  the  expression  and 
bearing  of  one  vividly  and  intelligently  curious  about  the 
life-scheme  of  which  he  was  a  part.  The  girl  noted, 
with  approval,  his  dress:  quietly  harmonious  in  every 
detail  yet  without  suggesting  the  finicky  habit;  a  style 
which  would  have  been  unremarkable  in  New  York  or 
London,  but  which  stood  out  with  a  pleasant  distinction 


40  COMMON  CAUSE 

among  the  more  casual  and  careless  garb  of  the  Middle 
West. 

"I  really  had  not  given  it  much  thought,"  she  an 
swered,  having  completed  her  scrutiny.  "Your  methods 
seem  rather  out  of  the  ordinary." 

"Are  you  a  million  years  old?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

If  his  intention  was  to  startle  her,  it  failed  signally. 
"Surely  that  is  a  very  personal  question.  I  am  not  — 
quite.  Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Because  you  look  so  like  a  kid  and  yet  you've  got 
the  nerve  —  no,  not  nerve  —  the  confidence  and  manner 
of  your  own  great-grandmother.  It 's  very  confusing," 
complained  young  Mr.  Robson,  leaning  dejectedly  upon 
the  gate. 

"Perhaps  it  arrives  from  my  having  been  brought  up 
abroad  and  much  among  older  people,"  she  surmised, 
with  one  of  her  slightly  un-English  turns  of  phrase.  "One 
reason  for  my  coming  here  to  the  University  is  to  accus 
tom  myself  to  your  American  ways." 

" '  Your '  American  ways  ? ' ' 

"Our  American  ways,"  she  amended  sweetly.  "Oh,  I 
am  all  American  in  my  heart!"  The  gay  and  willful  little 
dimple  again  materialized  on  her  cheek.  "Still,  one  can 
not  remain  indefinitely  leaning  over  a  gate  in  conversa 
tion,  however  thrilling,  with  a  young  man  whose  name 
one  does  not  even  know,  can  one?"  she  pointed  out. 

"You  don't  know  my  name?"  Young  Mr.  Robson 
looked  distinctly  annoyed.  "Mr,  Laurens  presented  me. 
Don't  you  remember  ?  " 

"But  you  were  only  a  reporter  who  was  going  to  write 
something  about  me,  then."  With  an  emphasis  on  the  final 
word,  slight,  indeed,  yet  amply  sufficient  to  make  amends. 


COMMON  CAUSE  41 

Her  caller  brightened  perceptibly.  "Surname  Robson. 
Given  name,  Jeremy.  Jem,  when  you  get  to  know  me 
better." 

She  opened  her  eyes  very  wide  to  take  in  this  idea. 

"  You  expect  that  we  are  going  to  know  each  other  so 
well  as  that?  " 

"We  certainly  are  if  I  can  bring  it  about.  Don't  you 
think  I  've  made  a  good  start?  " 

"At  least  a  quick  one.  What  is  your  next  step?" 

"That's  what's  worrying  me  a  little." 

"  But  so  progressing  a  young  man  as  you,  with  so  much 
perseverance,"  she  taunted,  "  surely  if 'you  planned  to  see 
me  once,  you  would  plan  how  to  see  me  again.  Perhaps, 
though,  you  do  not  wish  to  see  me  again  soon,"  she  added, 
with  an  adorable  mock-melancholy  droop  of  the  alluring 
lips. 

"You  '11  never  win  any  guessing  contests  on  that  form, 
Miss  Ames,"  he  assured  her,  shaking  his  head  solemnly. 
"But  you're  right  enough  about  my  having  a  plan.  The 
question  is,  will  it  work." 

"Try  it." 

"  Here  goes.  You  're  trying  for  the  Varsity  golf  team, 
are  n't  you?" 

"  I  intend  to,  if  I  improve  enough." 

"Are  you  pretty  good?" 

"  I  am  steady.  Only  twice  I  have  been  as  high  as  one 
hundred.  But  my  short  approaches  are  bad." 

"  I  can  help  'em." 

"  Can  you?  Are  you  a  good  player?  " 

" Fair.  But  I '11  tell  you  what  I  am.  I'm  a  good  coach. 
We  never  lost  an  intercollegiate  at  Kirk  in  the  three 
years  I  captained  the  team." 


42  COMMON  CAUSE 

"And  you  offer  to  coach  me?  It  is  very  kind  of  you." 

"Wait.   It  may  not  be  so  simple  as  all  that." 

"Shall  you  exact  terms?  "  she  smiled. 

"This  depends  on  how  much  you  are  in  earnest  about 
making  the  team." 

"Very  much." 

"  Enough  to  get  up  at  five  in  the  morning  and  play  a 
round?" 

"Why  such  an  unearthly  hour?" 

"It's  about  the  only  time  I  can  be  sure  of.  Don't  for 
get  I  'm  a  hard-working  reporter." 

"  I  thought  you  wished  me  to  forget  it,  only  a  moment 
ago,"  she  teased. 

"  I  want  you  to  remember  that  I  'm  a  man,"  he  re 
torted,  "besides  being  a  reporter.  And  that  you  and  I 
are  going  to  be  friends."  He  looked  her  fairly  in  the  eyes. 
"At  least,"  he  added  quietly. 

The  baffling  lights  in  her  eyes  deepened  as  she  met  his 
gaze,  unwaveringly.  "  I  believe  that  we  are  —  at  least," 
she  said.  "  When  shall  we  begin?" 

"  We  have  begun." 

"The  golf,  I  mean." 

"To-morrow." 

She  laughed  outright.  "  You  lose  no  time." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  have  any  to  lose.  I  don't  know 
how  long  you  're  to  be  here." 

"Nor  do  I,"  she  answered  with  a  sudden  gravity. 
"  Very  well ;  to-morrow.  I  will  meet  you  at  the  club  house 
at  5.45.  Oh!  I  forgot.  My  golf  shoes  are  at  Eli  Wade's. 
You  remember;  the  *  Boot  &  Shoe  Surgeon '?  " 

"I'll  get  them  this  afternoon,  and  bring  them  with 


COMMON  CAUSE  43 

'"Lo,  MissMarcy!" 

The  interruption,  in  a  cheerful  sing-song,  came  from 
behind  Jeremy.  He  turned  to  face  the  small  boy  and  the 
dog  of  his  earlier  encounter. 

"Good-morning,  Buddy,"  returned  the  girl. 

"  I  Ve  come  to  weed  the  sparr 'grass." 

"Yes:  we  have  been  expecting  you." 

"  I  stopped  by  home  to  get  you  these."  He  brought  out 
a  fistful  of  deep-hearted  pansies,  bound  in  a  pink  string. 

The  girl  took  them,  gave  him  a  little,  quick  pat  of  the 
hand  which  he  accepted  with  a  flush  of  mingled  adora 
tion  and  embarrassment,  and  pinned  them  at  her  throat. 

"This  is  Mr.  Burton  Higman,"  she  said.  "Mr.  Jeremy 
Robson.  To  his  friends,  Jem,  and  Mr.  Higman  to  his 
friends,  Buddy." 

Mr.  Higman  regarded  Mr.  Robson  with  a  consideration 
in  which  there  was  more  of  suspicion  than  friendliness. 

"Where  'dje  gittim?"  he  demanded  of  Miss  Ames. 

"  I  did  not  get  him.   He  came,"  explained  the  girl. 

"  Yep.  I  seen  him  before  he  got  here.  He  wras  down  on 
the  corner,  actin'  queer." 

"Hold  on,  now,  Buddy,"  protested  the  other,  looking 
pained.  "  Don't  take  away  a  man's  character." 

Miss  Ames  motioned  him  to  silence,  and  turned  an  eye 
of  lively  anticipation  upon  the  urchin. 

"What  was  he  doing?" 

"Snake-turns.  Walk  down  Nicklin  Avenya;  turn. 
Walk  up  to  the  corner;  turn  again.  Stop  at  the  corner; 
talk  to  a  tree.  Walk  down  Nicklin  Avenya  again;  turn 
oncet  more.  Stand  still.  I  watcht  him." 

"What  did  he  do  then?"  asked  the  girl,  enjoying  the 
discomfiture  of  her  caller. 


44  COMMON  CAUSE 

The  narrator  rubbed  one  foot  over  the  other  and  con 
sidered.  "Sweat,"  he  stated  conscientiously.  "Look  at 
his  collar." 

Mr.  Robson's  involuntary  hand  and  Miss  Ames'  invol 
untary  gaze  met  upon  the  article  of  apparel  indicated.  It 
melted  under  the  double  pressure. 

"Walked  back  up  to  Montgomery  Street,"  continued 
the  conscientious  chronicler  enjoyably.  "Stopped.  Cussed 
the  tree.  Sweat  some  more.  Turned  down  Bank  —  " 

"That  will  do,  Buddy.  You  should  be  a  detective." 
Mr.  Burton  Higman  blushed  in  glory.  The  girl  turned  to 
the  accused.  "  Is  all  this  true?  " 

"Guilty  as  charged." 

"Any  mitigating  circumstances?" 

"  I  was  screwing  up  my  courage  to  face  an  ordeal." 

"What's  an  ordeal?"    demanded  the  watchful  Mr. 
Higman. 
£•  "  I  am,"  replied  Miss  Ames. 

"Yep:  I'm  on,"  observed  her  youthful  admirer,  en 
lightened.  "Mr.  Wade  on  the  School  Board  made  us  a 
talk  Sat'day,  about  ordeals.  Said  each  one  of  us  should 
adopt  a  high  ordeal  and  stick  to  it.  If  you  're  one,  and  I 
got  to  do  it,  I  choose  to  adopt  you." 

"Buddy,"  said  his  rival. 

"Yep?" 

"Will  you  sell  out  your  claim  for  a  dime?" 

"No,  sir/" 

"For  a  quarter?" 

"Nope."  , 

"Foradol— "    • 

"Quit!  No  fair!"  protested  Mr.  Higman  in  a  voice  of 
poignant  agony. 


COMMON  CAUSE  45 

14  You're  right.  It  is  n't  fair.  Shake,  old  boy."  Young 
Mr.  Robson  gravely  shook  young  Burton  Higman  by 
the  hand.  "Between  you  and  me,  only  honorable  and 
knightly  rivalry.  We  '11  go  fishing  some  day  and  talk  over 
high  ordeals  and  other  matters  close  to  the  heart." 

"And  at  present  Buddy  and  I  will  map  out  the  attack 
upon  the  asparagus,"  said  the  girl. 

She  turned  away,  with  a  smile  of  dismissal  for  her  in 
formal  caller. 

As  he  took  himself  off,  Marcia  Ames  turned  to  her 
other  admirer.  "Well,  Buddy.  What  do  you  think  of 
him?" 

"He's  a  nut,"  was  the  prompt  and  uncompromising 
decision. 

"So  bad?  If  it  is  bad.  What  is  a  nut?" 

"Plumb  crazy." 

"You  think  so?  Perhaps,  a  little." 

"Plumb!"  persisted  the  other  jealously.  But  the  in 
nate  and  responsive  fair-mindedness  of  youth  prompted 
him  to  add:  "But,  say!  When  he  kinda  smiles  that  way 
at  ye,  it 's  all  off.  There 's  nothin'  to  it.  It  gets  you.  Ain't 
it  true?  "  inquired  Buddy  earnestly. 

The  unanalytical  Buddy  was  flattered,  thrilled,  and 
faintly  puzzled  by  the  instant  response  to  this  speech 
when,  laughing,  his  goddess  caught  him  in  a  quick, 
warm  little  hug.  He  did  n't  wholly  understand  why  she 
did  it. 

For  that  matter,  neither  did  she. 


CHAPTER  IV 

GOLF  boots? "  said  Eli  Wade,  Boot  &  Shoe  Surgeon. 
"  Per  the  young  lady  at  Miss  Pritchard's?  Right 
here."  He  held  them  up  to  his  own  admiration.  "Afoot 
that 's  right,"  said  the  Boot  &  Shoe  Surgeon.  "  Right  and 
light.  Honest  wear  on  them  boots.  Even  as  a  die.  No 
sloppy,  slovenly  running  down  at  one  side  of  the  heel. 
The  wearer  of  them  boots  carries  her  weight  square  an* 
level,  she  does.  She  stands  straight  an*  she  walks  straight. 
Yes,  an'  she  talks  you  straight,  an'  looks  you  straight 
in  the  eye.  Why  did  n't  she  come  for  'em  herself,  same  as 
she  brung  'em?  Not  ailin',  is  she?" 

"  I  was  going  by  this  way,  so  I  stopped  in  to  save  time," 
said  Jeremy  Robson. 

"  You  're  welcome.  But  I  'd  ruther  she  yd  come,  herself. 
We  had  a  good  talk,  her  an'  me,  when  she  brung  in  the 
boots."  He  wrapped  them  up  clumsily  but  carefully.  "A 
good  operation,"  stated  the  Boot  &  Shoe  Surgeon.  "An 
extry  good  operation.  But  no  extry  charge." 

A  figure  stirred  in  a  long  canvas  chair  in  the  corner. 
From  it  came  a  mutter  in  which  the  words  "Scab-work" 
in  a  contemptuous  tone  were  alone  comprehensible.  The 
figure  reared  a  white- thatched  head,  and  a  keen,  lined 
face,  above  a  sinewy  neck  set  upon  a  spare  frame.  "  Rich, 
ain't  she?"  said  the  figure.  "Let  her  pay  extry,  then,  for 
extry  work." 

"Rich  she  may  or  may  not  be,"  replied  the  Boot  & 
Shoe  Surgeon.  "Proud  she  ain't.  Comes  in  here  as  free 
as  fresh  air  an'  as  pleasant.  'Mr.  Wade?'  s'  she.  'Doctor 


COMMON  CAUSE  47 

Wade,  when  I  'm  in  the  Surgery,  Miss,'  s'  I.  '  Doctor 
Wade,  you  get  my  trade,'  s'  she,  and  laughed  a  little,  for 
she  had  n't  meant  to  say  it  that  way.  'That's  as  purty  a 
rhyme  as  ever  I  heard  in  my  life,  Miss,'  s'  I.  I  looked  at 
the  boots.  'Furrin?'  s'  I.  'Yes,'  s'  she.  I  looked  up 
at  her.  'Furrin?'  s'  I.  'No,'  s' she.  'American,'  s'  she. 
'As  American  as  you  are.'  'Glad  to  hear  it,'  s'  I.  'You 
must  be  an  American  from  'way-back,'  s'  I,  'fer  the 
Wades  f'm  Wal-tham,'  s'  I,  'have  fit  in  every  war  f'm  the 
Revolution  sence,  all  an'  inclusive,  an'  I  reckon  to  live  to 
fight  in  the  comin'  one,  ef  they  take  'em  over  sixty  years 
of  age,'  s'  I.  'What  is  the  comin'  one,  Doctor  Wade?'  s' 
she.  'Why,  the  war  when  us  Americans  has  got  to  get  to 
gether  and  fight  for  Americar  against  all  these  durn  fur- 
riners  that  think  they  own  the  earth,'  s'  I.  'That's  the 
comin'  war  as  I  reckon  it,  an'  I  guess  it's  comin'  right 
here  in  Centralia  an'  through  the  Middle  West  purty  soon 
unless  we  figger  to  let  ourselves  get  shewed  plum  off  the 
map,'  s'  I.  Then  she  told  me  about  noticin'  the  flag  an* 
the  motter  in  my  winder,  an'  says  that's  why  she  brung 
me  her  trade,  an'  she  hopes  the  flag '11  stay  there,  fer 
trade  follers  the  flag,  s'  she,  or  ought  to  in  sech  a  good 
cause.  An'  she  laughs  that  laugh  of  hern,  like  music,  an* 
we  settled  down  an'  had  a  real  good  palaver.  So,"  said 
the  Boot  &  Shoe  Surgeon,  "she  gets  a  low-priced,  extry- 
good  operation.  Though  I'm  bound  to  say,  she'd  'a'  got 
somethin'  extry  jest  on  the  straight  way  she  wears  shoe- 
leather." 

"You  read  character  from  shoes,  then,"  commented 
Jeremy  Robson,  mildly  amused. 

"What'd  I  be  if  I  couldn't?  A  cobbler!  A  leather- 
patcher !  Not  a  genuwyne  Boot  &  Shoe  Surgeon.  Charao 


48  COMMON  CAUSE 

ter  in  shoes?  Of  course  there  is.  Lemme  see  yours."  He 
lifted  up  first  one,  then  the  other  foot  of  his  visitor,  as  if 
he  were  a  horse,  and  shook  his  head  soberly  over  them. 

"You  stumble,"  he  said.  "You  ain't  struck  your  gait, 
yet.  Bump  up  against  things  when  there 's  no  sense  in 
it.  Foolish.  Obstinit,  too,  I  would  n't  wonder.  Lazy? 
M-m-m!  I  dunno.  I  guess  you  like  the  easy  way  an'  a 
clear  path  pretty  good.  If  you're  sensible  an'  saving,  bet 
ter  leave  them  shoes  with  me  for  a  little  toning-up." 

"Will  you  undertake  to  improve  my  character  with 
the  improvement  to  my  shoes?" 

"Laugh  at  me  if  you  like.  You  don't  laugh  at  folks 
that  believes  in  palmistry.  What 's  a  man's  palm  to  read ! 
He  can  change  every  line  in  it  with  a  hoe,  or  an  awl,  or  a 
golf-stick.  But  his  shoes!  Ah!  As  a  man  walks,  so  he  is. 
An'  his  shoes  tell  the  tale.  Take  these,  young  man." 
The  Boot  &  Shoe  Surgeon  laid  an  affectionate  hand  upon 
Miss  Marcia  Ames'  boots.  "Study  'em.  They'll  repay 
you.  There's  courage  an'  clean  pride  an'  a  warm  heart 
that  travels  the  path  she  walks.  Yes;  an'  a  touch  of  van 
ity —  Why  not?  An*  a  temper  of  their  own,  them  boots. 
Hot  an'  quick  an'  generous.  You've  got  to  travel  some 
to  keep  pace  with  them  boots.  I  dunno  when  I  Ve  had  a 
pair  to  match  'em.  Here's  another  pair '11  go  far."  He 
lifted  them  into  view.  "Hand-made,  stout-made,  and 
serviceable.  They're  climbers,  they  are!  They'll  reach 
the  high  places  —  if  they  don't  slip." 

"Who  owns  them?" 

"The  Honorable  Martin  Embree." 

"A  faker,"  grunted  the  white-haired  figure. 

"A  climber.  A  hustler.  A  fighter.  No  faker.  Yet  — 
they  may  slip,"  said  the  diagnostician,  studying  the  sole 


COMMON  CAUSE  49 

of  the  left  boot.  "They  may  slip.  Gave  me  some  advice, 
when  he  saw  my  winder.  'Leave  the  flag,  but  take  out 
the  motter,'  s'  he.  'There's  no  sense  in  that  "It  stands 
alone."  The  country  is  big  enough  an'  broad  enough  for 
all  nationalities,  an'  welcome,'  s'  he." 

"Sensible  enough,"  growled  the  figure  in  the  chair. 
"But  he's  a  faker.  A  half-heart.  All  for  the  people  in 
words.  But  put  it  up  to  him  in  deeds  —  he  ain't  there." 

"He's  a  Socialist,"  explained  the  Boot  &  Shoe  Sur 
geon,  pointing  his  awl  at  the  chair.  "Nicholas  Milliken. 
Make  you  acquainted.  What  did  you  say  your  name 
was?" 

"Jeremy  Robson,"  said  its  owner,  who  had  n't  yet 
said  anything  of  the  sort. 

The  figure  in  the  chair  for  the  first  time  honored  him 
with  its  attention. 

"On  The  Record?"  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"Reporter?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  you've  got  the  soul  of  a  louse." 

"Soft  words,  Nick,"  prescribed  Eli  Wade. 

"Soft  words?  Hard  facts!  The  soul  of  a  louse !" 

"Who  the  devil  are  you?"  demanded  Jeremy. 

"A  Socialist,"  repeated  the  Boot  &  Shoe  Surgeon. 
"Don't  mind  him." 

Milliken  rose  and  stood  before  the  subject  of  his  com- 
temptuous  phrase;  long,  lean,  dry,  and  bitter.  "Me?" 
said  he.  "  I  'm  a  man.  I  'm  no  hired  pen.  I  write  for  The 
Free-Thinker,  when  I  write." 

"Rest  of  the  time  he  sets  type  on  The  Record,"  ex 
plained  Wade. 


50  COMMON  CAUSE 

"That's  it.  Many  a  time  I 've  run  the  stick  over  your 
stuff." 

"It  seems  to  have  made  an  unfavorable  impression  on 
you,"  remarked  Jeremy. 

"Oh,  you  can  write."  The  other  flung  the  concession 
to  him  condescendingly.  "I  grant  you  that.  What  good 
does  that  do  you?  You've  got  to  trim  your  facts  to  your 
owner's  orders,  have  n't  you?" 

"Not  facts,"  denied  the  reporter  with  some  heat. 
"Facts  are  facts.  I  don't  trim  them  for  anybody." 

"Nobody  trims  them  after  they're  written,  either,  I 
suppose." 

The  tone  was  not  to  Jeremy's  liking.  "The  copy- 
desk  —  "  he  began. 

"Oh,  cut  the  guff!  The  copy-desk  is  a  hired  blue  pencil, 
just  like  you're  a  hired  pen.  You  know  what  I  mean. 
Why  did  n't  they  print  your  story  on  the  girl  at  the 
Federated  German  Societies  meeting?  Was  n't  it  facts? 
Was  n't  it  good  enough?" 

Jeremy  was  silent. 

"I'll  tell  you,"  resumed  the  implacable  Socialist. 
"They  were  afraid.  Afraid  of  the  German  crowd.  Call 
their  souls  their  own?  Not  any  more  than  you  can." 

"What  about  yourself,  Nick?"  put  in  the  proprietor 
of  the  place.  "You  take  The  Record's  money,  the  same 
as  this  gentleman,  only  maybe  not  so  much  of  it." 

"Do  I  sell  myself  for  it?  Would  I  write  for  The  Record? 
Or  any  other  of  the  capitalistic  press?  Eli  Wade,  you're 
honest,  you  are.  A  fool,  but  honest.  You  don't  know  what 
a  reporter's  got  to  do  to  hold  his  job.  Why,  if  you  was  to 
get  into  some  mix-up  over  a  pair  of  shoes  with  the  owner 
of  his  paper  to-morrow,  he'd  be  sent  down  here  to  write 


COMMON  CAUSE  51 

you  wrong,  whether  you  were  right  or  wrong,  and  he  'd  do 
it.  He'd  have  to  do  it.  That 's  what  comes  of  a  privately 
owned  press,  under  our  capitalistic  system." 

Through  the  gross  exaggeration  Jeremy  felt  the  point 
of  a  half-truth  and  resented  it.  "No  decent  reporter 
would  do  it,"  he  asserted. 

"Who  said  anything  about  'decent*  reporters?"  coun 
tered  the  other. 

Jeremy's  face  changed;  his  weight  shifted  slightly 
upon  his  feet.  Not  so  slightly  but  that  the  pedal  diag 
nostician  noticed  the  movement.  "Want  to  get  your  eye 
punched?"  he  inquired,  of  Milliken.  "You're  going  the 
right  way  for  it." 

The  Socialist  grinned  wickedly  and  relishingly.  "  Don't 
like  that,  huh?  All  right.  Come  to  me  a  year  from  now 
and  tell  me  I'm  wrong,  and  I'll  apologize.  That's  fair. 
Ain't  it?" 

"That's  fair,"  corroborated  the  Boot  &  Shoe  Sur 
geon. 

"Mind  you,"  continued  the  Socialist,  pursuing  his  fa 
vorite  path  of  self -explication ;  "I  would  n't  ha'  printed 
your  story,  either.  It  was  a  fool  story.  Ain't  the  Ger 
mans  just  as  good  as  we  are?  Better 'n  a  lot  of  us.  They 
believe  in  the  rights  o'  men,  they  do.  None  of  your  dirty 
aristocratic  notions  about  them.  Look  at  Germany! 
Most  Socialistic  country  in  the  world  to-day.  Most  civ 
ilized,  too." 

"Let  'em  stay  in  their  own  country,  then,"  said  Eli 
Wade.  "We  don't  want  'em." 

"Ah,  but  we  do!  We  need  'em  to  help  on  the  Social 
Revolution." 

"My  folks  fit  in  one  American  Revolution,"  said  the 


52  COMMON  CAUSE 

Doctor  stoutly.  "I  don't  reckon  none  of  us  is  going  to 
fight  in  another  led  by  Germans  and  crazy  folks." 

"You  '11  come  around,"  laughed  Milliken.  "You  '11  live 
to  be  ashamed  of  that  silly  motto  in  your  window.  Take 
it  out!  Take  it  out,  Eli  Wade,  and  put  the  Red  Flag  of 
World-Brotherhood  in  its  place." 

"Above  the  American  flag,  mebbe?" 

"Along  with  it.  My  stock 's  as  good  Yankee  as  yours, 
Eli.  But  I'm  ready  to  fight  again  for  libutty,  and  you 
ain't.  You  read  too  much  in  the  capitalistic  press.  Some 
day  you'll  be  reading  this  young  feller's  editorials,  all 
about  the  rights  o'  capital  and  what  the  laboring  man 
owes  to  his  employer." 

"You  will  not,"  said  Jeremy. 

"Trying  your  pen  at  editorials,  ain't  you?" 

"Have  you  been  setting  those  up,  too?" 

"Exactly.  You'll  land.  You've  got  the  knack.  The 
slick,  smooth,  oily  trick  of  making  the  thing  seem  what  it 
ain't.  So  pretty  soon  I  '11  have  to  take  that  back  about 
your  having  the  soul  of  a  louse.  You'll  be  worse  than 
that.  I'll  tell  you  what  you '11  be."  And  he  told,  naming 
a  very  ancient  and  much  blown-upon  profession. 

"That'll  be  enough  an'  some-to-carry  from  you,"  said 
the  Boot  &  Shoe  Surgeon  indignantly.  "Get  out  of  my 
place  an'  don't  come  back  until  you  've  cleaned  your  dirty 
tongue." 

Resentment  of  his  brusque  dismissal  was  far  remote 
from  Mr.  Nicholas  Milliken's  philosophic  mind,  if  one 
were  to  judge  by  the  cheerful  smile  with  which  he  rose. 
"All  right,  old  moozle-head ! "  he  returned  affectionately. 
"He  fires  me  about  once  a  week,"  he  explained  to  Jeremy. 
"That's  when  he  can't  stand  any  more  good,  plain  facts. 


COMMON  CAUSE  53 

They  boil  over  on  him  and  out  I  go,  with  the  steam.  Don't 
you  mind  me,  either,  young  feller.  You  '11  see  I  'm  right, 
one  day.  We're  all  bound  upon  the  Wheel  of  Things,  as 
the  old  Lammy  said  to  Kim.  Sup-prised,  are  you,  that  I 
know  Roodyerd  Kipling?"  He  preened  himself  with  a 
childish  vanity.  "I  read  everything!  The  old  Lammy 
was  a  bit  of  a  Socialist  himself.  All  bound  upon  the 
Wheel  of  Things.  And  if  I  see  a  little  clearer  than  you, 
it's  only  because  I  happen  to  be  bound  a  turn  or  two 
higher  up." 

The  ineffable  patronage  of  this  amused  Jeremy  into 
good  humor.  "I'll  call  on  you  for  that  apology,  though, 
one  of  these  days,"  he  said  to  the  parting  guest. 
j>  Eli  Wade  looked  after  Milliken  with  a  frown.  "Them 
shoes  of  his  have  got  a  gallows  gait,"  he  declared.  "Law 
less  paths!  Lawless  paths!  Why  do  I  stand  his  bitter 
tongue?  I  guess  it's  because  he  makes  me  think.  I  wish 
I  had  his  education,"  sighed  the  old  man. 

"Where  did  he  get  it?" 

"Picked  it  up.  Libraries,  night  schools,  and  the  like. 
He  was  a  New  England  mill-hand,  always  in  hot  water. 
Stirrin'  up  labor  troubles  an'  all  that.  Picked  up  typog 
raphy  an'  drifted  out  here.  A  quirky  mind  an'  a  restless 
one,  an'  a  bad  course  it  sets  for  his  feet  to  follow,"  said 
the  gentle,  one-ideaed  old  philosopher  of  foot-gear.  "But 
not  a  bad  heart,  Nick  has  n't.  Come  in  again,  young  gen 
tleman,"  he  added.  "Not  in  the  way  of  trade.  Come  in 
an'  talk  with  the  old  man.  One  of  you  newspaper  gentle 
men  drops  in  for  a  chat,  often.  Mr.  Galpin  of  The  Guard 
ian.  You'll  know  him,  I  guess?" 

"Very  well." 

"Them  are  his  spare  shoes,  yonder.  Rough,  ordinary, 


54  COMMON  CAUSE 

plain  articles.  Plodders.  But  good  wearing  stuff  in  'em 
an'  right  solid  on  the  ground,  every  inch.  Slow-moving," 
he  nodded  thoughtfully.  "Yes;  they'll  move  slow,  but 
they  won't  never  wobble.  An'  don't  think  to  trip  up  the 
man  that  walks  in  'em.  It  ain't  to  be  done." 

"I  believe  you're  right,  there." 

"Right?  Cert'nly  I'm  right.  Leather  never  lies.  Not 
good  leather.  An'  poor  leather's  a  dead  give-away.  My 
museum  of  soles."  He  waved  a  showman's  hand  toward 
the  rows  of  shoes  suspended  neatly  in  brackets  of  his  own 
devising  against  the  walls.  "  Look  at  them  Congress  gai 
ters.  Would  n't  you  know  they  was  a  banker's  belongings? 
Robert  Wanser,  President  of  the  Trust  Company.  Full 
and  easy  and  comfortable  and  mebbe  a  little  sly  in  the 
gait.  But  there's  weight  in  'em.  Don't  get  in  their  way. 
There's  Rappelje's  next  'em;  Professor  Rappelje,  of  the 
University.  Queer  neighbors.  Straight  and  thin  and  fine 
finished,  his  gear.  Mebbe  a  little  pinchy.  But  a  man  to 
swear  by.  And  Bausch:  them  high-button  calfs.  He's  a 
buster.  Busts  his  buttons  off.  One  of  them  big,  puffin'- 
up  Germans.  Always  marching.  Tramp- tramp-tramp : 
the  goose-step.  Nothin'  o'  that  in  that  lot  on  the  end. 
Judge  Dana.  See  the  ball  of  the  soles?  Worn  down. 
Creeps,  he  does.  Guess  he  can  jump  too,  after  he's  crept 
near  enough.  An'  that  pair  below,  on  the  right.  That's 
a  shuffler.  Mr.  Wymett.  Owns  The  Guardian  and  runs  it. 
Now  here's  a  mincer.  Dainty  an'  soft  he  goes  an'  dainty 
an'  soft  he  lives :  the  Rev.  Mr.  Merserole,  rector  of  our 
rich  folks'  church.  For  all  that,  there's  stuff  an'  weight 
in  his  shoes."  His  hand  hovered  and  touched  a  pair  of 
elegantly  made,  low,  laced  Oxfords,  of  almost  feminine 
delicacy.  "Style  there,  eh?  Know  what  they  want,  those 


COMMON  CAUSE  55 

shoes.  Got  to  be  jest  so.  Spick  an'  span.  They  say  Mont- 
rose  Clark  never  has  to  pay  to  have  'em  cleaned?' 

"Why  is  that?"  asked  Jeremy,  responsive  to  the  look 
of  invitation  in  the  old  man's  eye. 

"Got  so  many  boot-lickers  around  him,"  chuckled  the 
philosopher.  "Kick  you  as  soon  as  look  at  you,  those 
would,  for  all  they  look  so  finicky." 

"I'll  come  in  to  see  you  when  I  need  pointers  about 
people,"  said  Jeremy,  smiling. 

The  Boot  &  Shoe  Surgeon  handed  him  the  repaired 
golf-boots.  "I'm  an  ignorant  old  man,"  he  said,  "but  I 
know  folks's  feet  and  sometimes  I  can  guess  what  path 
they'll  take.  I've  been  talking  pretty  free  to  you,  Mr. 
Robson,  for  a  stranger.  But  I  reckon  you're  trustable, 
'spite  of  what  Nick  Milliken  says." 

"I  reckon  I  am,  Doctor  Wade,"  returned  Jeremy,  and 
believed  himself  as  he  said  it. 

"Yes:  the  old  man  likes  to  talk,"  confessed  Eli  \Vade; 
"an'  about  people.  Gossip,  some  call  it.  That's  a  silly 
word.  What's  history  but  gossip  about  folks  that  are 
dead?  But,  of  course,  a  man  like  me  has  to  be  careful  who 
he  talks  to,  being  in  public  life." 

"Certainly,"  acquiesced  the  amused  Jeremy.  "But  I 
did  n't  know  you  were  in  public  life.  What  office  do  you 
hold?" 

"I'm  on  the  Fenchester  Public  School  Board,"  said 
Eli  Wade  with  simple  but  profound  pride. 


CHAPTER  V 

BOBOLINK  on  a  grass-tuft  piped  ecstatic  welcome 
to  a  long-lost  friend,  the  sun.  Five  gray  and  weary 
days  had  passed  since  that  amiable  orb  had  bestowed  so 
much  as  one  uncloaked  beam  upon  birds  and  men,  and  on 
each  of  those  rain-soaked  days,  Jeremy  Robson  had 
racked  his  overstrained  vocabulary  for  new  objurgations 
against  the  malign  fates  which  had  spread  a  watery  bar 
rier  between  himself  and  Marcia  Ames.  Now  the  sun  was 
an  hour  above  the  eastern  horizon  with  a  flawless  sky 
outspread  like  a  luxurious  carpet  for  its  day's  journey. 
Secure  at  that  hour  in  the  undisputed  possession  of  the 
earth,  bobolink  swayed  and  sang,  when  to  its  wrath  and 
amaze  a  shining  missile  descended  from  the  sky  and 
bounded  with  sprightly  twists  toward  its  chosen  choir- 
loft. 

" Sliced  into  the  rough  again,"  said  a  voice  of  despair 
from  the  hollow  below,  and  two  figures  appeared,  headed 
toward  the  singer,  who  moved  on  with  an  indignant  and 
expostulatory  chirp,  but  found  another  perch  still  within 
ear-shot. 

"Because  you  will  not  keep  your  head  down,"  repre 
hended  the  deeper  tones  of  the  young  man. 

Bobolink  stretched  his  liquid  throat  in  a  love-song. 
He  sang  the  warm  sweetness  of  the  earth,  and  the  con 
quering  glory  of  the  sun;  the  breeze's  kiss  and  the  wel 
come  of  the  flower  for  the  bees,  and  youth  which  is  made 
up  of  all  these  and  comes  but  once.  Out  of  a  full  heart  he 
sent  forth  his  missioning  call  to  young  hearts;  then,  as  the 


COMMON  CAUSE  57 

girl  turned  an  exquisite  face  toward  him,  he  waited  for 
her  response. 

"That  is  four,"  said  she,  "  and  I  am  not  out  yet."  And 
she  hewed  away  a  whole  clump  of  innocent  daisies,  with 
one  ferocious  chop.  ; 

"You  should  have  used  a  niblick  the  first  time,"  ob 
served  the  young  man. 

Perceiving  that  romance  had  forever  departed  from  the 
human  race  when,  on  such  a  May  morning,  such  a  maid 
and  such  a  youth  could  satisfy  their  soul  with  such  con 
versation  as  this,  bobolink  flew  away  to  a  tussock  in  an 
adjacent  field  where  his  own  private  romance  was  safe 
hidden. 

To  versatile  human  kind,  it  is  given  to  make  love  in 
many  and  diverse  manners  uncomprehended  of  the  bird 
species.  Not  the  least  ingenious  of  his  species,  Mr. 
Jeremy  Robson  had  marked  out  as  his  first  step  the  es 
tablishment  of  a  systematic  association  with  Miss  Marcia 
Ames,  through  golf;  and  until  that  association  could  be 
trusted  to  walk  alone,  as  it  were,  he  purposed  to  confine 
his  attention  strictly  to  the  matter  in  hand.  Her  desire  to 
make  the  college  team  was  a  very  genuine  one,  and  he 
guessed  her  to  be  a  young  lady  of  no  small  determination. 
Therefore,  he  was  well  satisfied  to  observe  that,  on  this 
their  first  experiment  as  teacher  and  pupil,  she  was  play 
ing  rather  poorly.  This  meant  longer  and  more  arduous 
practice.  At  the  end  of  the  first  round,  during  which  he 
had  devoted  close  attention  but  scant  suggestion  to  her 
performance,  he  was  four  up  and  her  card  showed  a  pain 
ful  total. 

"Fifty- twos  will  never  land  you  anywhere,"  was  the 
conclusion  which  he  derived  from  the  addition. 


58  COMMON  CAUSE 

"What  is  to  be  done?"  she  asked  in  her  precise  Eng 
lish.  "I  grow  worse." 

"Do  you  read  Ibsen?"  he  inquired. 

"I  have  read  him  a  great  deal.  But  not  upon  golf," 
said  Miss  Ames  with  raised  eyebrows. 

"Does  your  playing  suggest  any  particular  character 
of  his?" 

"You  are  being  absurd.  Or  is  it  one  of  your  riddles,  at 
which  I  am  not  clever?" 

"I'm  giving  you  a  test  in  self -analysis.  The  Ibsen 
character  whom  you  suggest,  particularly  when  you  play 
your  iron  shots,  is  Little Eyolf.  The /silent,  as  in 'Hades.' " 

"  I  do  not  think  that  a  very  funny  joke,"  she  said  scorn 
fully. 

"It's  been  turned  down  by  three  comic  papers, 
though,"  he  defended. 

"Then  why  must  I  bear  it?" 

"To  make  the  point  stick  in  your  memory.  Once,  quite 
early  in  the  morning,  I  came  around  the  corner  of  a  barn 
on  a  Philadelphia  golf  course,  and  there  was  a  nice-look 
ing  elderly  lady  whom  I  had  seen  the  day  before  taking 
her  two  small  grandchildren  out  walking,  addressing  a 
ball  with  a  brassie  and  saying,  'Eye  on  the  ball;  slow 
back;  carry  through.  Eye  on  the  ball;  slow  back;  carry 
through,'  over  and  over  again.  Brassie  shots  were  her 
weakness.  The  next  day  that  persevering  old  grandma 
went  out  and  made  low  score  in  the  National  Women's 
Championship.  Now,  if  you'll  just  think  of  yourself  as 
Little  Eyolf  until  you  're  good  and  mad,  it  '11  help  do  the 
trick." 

"What  were  you  doing  in  Philadelphia?"  inquired  the 
girl  irrelevantly. 


COMMON  CAUSE  59 

"Not  golfing,"  he  returned.  "So,  if  you  don't  mind, 
we  '11  postpone  that.  This  is  a  golf  lesson,  and  right  here 
the  serious  business  of  the  day  begins.  The  first  consider 
ation  is  to  cure  you  of  star-gazing.  You  appreciate  that 
that's  your  main  trouble?" 

"  Raising  my  head,  you  mean?" 

"That's  it.  Star-gazing,  we  call  it." 

"  It  occurs  because  I  forget  myself." 

"And  mostly  on  your  irons.  You  get  your  wooden 
shots  off  clean.  Now,  let's  drive." 

Two  straight  shots  flew  down  the  course,  his  the  longer 
by  fifteen  yards.  A  ninety-yard  approach  lay  before  her. 

"Beginneth  here  the  first  lesson,"  said  Jeremy.  "It's 
a  sure  cure,  on  the  homoeopathic  principle.  Invented  it 
myself  for  a  fellow  on  our  college  team  who  was  a  star- 
gazer,  and  he  showed  his  gratitude  by  eliminating  me 
from  the  individual  championship,  that  fall."  He  took  a 
cardboard  box  from  his  pocket,  and  extracted  from  it  one 
of  a  number  of  small,  gilt  stars  such  as  stationers  carry 
in  stock.  This  he  pressed  down  upon  the  grass  so  close  be 
hind  his  pupil's  ball  as  almost  to  touch  its  lower  arc.  "  Be 
hold  the  star  of  your  hopes." 

"  What  am  I  to  do  with  it?  " 

"  Keep  your  eye  on  it  —  if  you  can." 

"  Until  after  I  have  struck  the  ball?  " 

"  Longer  than  that.  After  you've  played,  step  forward 
and  plant  the  sole  of  your  foot  on  the  star.  But  you  won't 
be  able  to  do  it.  Not  the  first  time." 

"  I  shall,"  said  the  girl  with  quiet  conviction. 

Taking  her  stance,  she  measured  the  distance  with  a 
careful  eye,  and  sent  the  ball  off  with  a  clean  click.  Her 
head  remained  bent  with  an  almost  devotional  intent- 


60  COMMON  CAUSE 

ness.  She  stepped  forward  and  covered  the  star  with 
that  boot  which  Eli  Wade  had  so  warmly  praised. 

"Good!"  approved  the  instructor.  "You've  got  will 
power." 

"  I  have  needed  to  have,"  replied  the  girl.  Her  tone 
was  curiously  musing  and  confidential.  "May  I  look  up 
now?" 

"Surely.  'You'll  like  the  view." 

The  ball,  rising  high,  had  landed  upon  the  edge  of  the 
green  and  rolled  to  within  ten  feet  of  the  cup. 

"Oh!"  she  cried.  "Do  you  suppose  I  could  do  it 
again?" 

"Any  number  of  times,  if  you'll  keep  your  eye  on  the 
star." 

"  But  one  could  not  carry  about  a  box  of  stars  in  a 
match,  could  one?  " 

"  One  could.  But  it  won't  be  necessary.  Two  weeks' 
practice  at  that  will  get  you  clean  out  of  the  Little  Eyolf 
habit." 

"Will  it,  indeed?  But  why  do  you  look  so  intently  at 
the  spot?" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Jeremy  hastily.  "  It  was 
your  boot  —  I  mean,  I  was  thinking  what  that  queer  old 
codger  Eli  Wade  said  when  I  went  after  your  boots." 

"And  was  that  golf?"  inquired  Miss  Ames  with  a  de 
mure  and  candid  air.  "  No?  Then,  if  you  do  not  mind,  we 
will  postpone  it,  shall  we  not?" 

"Stung!"  confessed  Jeremy.   "We  shall." 

The  bestarred  second  round  cut  no  less  than  five 
strokes  from  the  score  of  the  gratified  pupil  and  her  even 
more  highly  pleased  instructor.  This  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  she  had  once  lifted  her  head  and  perpetrated  a  la- 


COMMON  CAUSE  61 

men  table  foozle,  whereupon  Jeremy  gravely  pasted  one 
of  the  stars  on  the  toe  of  her  left  boot:  "To  keep  you  re 
minded,"  he  explained. 

"But,"  he  added,  "you've  got  to  clip  at  least  three 
more  strokes  off  to  be  safe.  That'll  take  you  all  your 
time." 

It  took  a  disproportionate  amount  of  Jeremy  Robson's, 
too,  which,  to  do  him  justice,  he  did  not  begrudge.  As  a 
corollary  to  the  morning  lessons  he  took  to  dropping  in  at 
the  Pritchard  mansion  of  an  evening  to  discuss  some  of 
the  more  abstruse  points  of  the  game,  where  he  found 
himself  in  active  competition  with  the  picked  youth  of 
the  University  and  the  town,  for  Miss  Marcia  gathered  a 
court  as  irresistibly  as  a  flower  gathers  bees.  Quite  un 
justifiably  Jeremy  was  inclined  to  sulk  a  bit  over  this, 
unmindful  of  the  favor  of  the  gods  in  affording  him  her 
undivided  companionship  in  those  early  morning  hours. 
Whereupon  the  gods,  as  is  their  custom,  withdrew  their 
unappreciated  bestowals.  Buddy  Higman  discovered  the 
golf  practice  and  straightway  volunteered  as  caddy. 
Jealousy  as  well  as  desire  to  be  of  service  to  the  liege  lady 
prompted  his  offer,  which  was  straightway  accepted.  So 
the  morning  practice  continued  while  bobolink  from  his 
daisied  choir-loft  (no  longer  invaded  by  balls  wandering 
from  the  straight  and  narrow  path  which  leads  to  the 
House  of  Bogie)  alternately  cheered  and  jeered  at  this 
chaperoned  companionship. 

One  stroke,  two  strokes,  and  finally  five  strokes  were 
subtracted  from  the  aspirant's  nine-hole  score.  Her  mas 
ter  gave  her  his  blessing  and  told  her  to  go  in  and  win.  In 
the  Varsity  competition,  she  qualified  with  a  highly  re 
spectable  round,  and  in  the  play-off  for  the  team,  won 


62  COMMON  CAUSE 

her  place.  The  team  captain  posted  the  choice  for  the 
yearly  match  against  Kirk  College  on  the  athletic  bulle 
tin,  one  line  of  which  read: 

No.  4  —  M.  Ames. 

f  In  special  celebration  of  the  event,  the  pupil  accepted 
an  invitation  to  dine  at  the  Country  Club  that  evening 
with  the  instructor. 

"Will  you  make  an  agreement?"  she  asked,  as  they 
faced  each  other  across  the  little  table,  pleasantly  remote 
in  a  far  corner  of  the  veranda. 

"Unsight-unseen?"  he  smiled.    "  All  right.    I  '11  swap/' 

"That  is  quite  too  American  for  me.  But  you  agree. 
Then  let  us  not  speak  the  word  '  golf '  all  this  evening.  I 
am  tired  of  it." 

"Stale,"  commented  the  expert.  "You  must  lay  off  for 
a  week.  Well,  let's  forget  it.  What  shall  we  talk  about?" 

"What  are  you  doing  here  in  Fenchester?" 

He  smiled  at  the  directness  of  the  question.  "Plain  and 
fancy  reporting." 

"You  do  not  seem  to  belong  here." 

"What  makes  you  think  that?" 

She  considered  him  meditatively.  "I  suppose  it  was 
your  clothes,  first.  You  dress  differently  from  the  others. 
More  like  the  men  I  have  known  over  there." 

"Remnants  of  past  glory,"  he  assured  her  lightly.  "I 
have  n't  always  lived  here,  you  know." 

"Where  then?  Do  you  mind  my  asking?" 

"Not  a  bit.  I've  drifted  about  doing  worthless  things 
for  several  years.  Philadelphia  mainly,  New  York  a  little. 
Getting  myself  mis-educated.  You  see,  I  'm  something  of 
a  failure." 


COMMON  CAUSE  63 

"You  should  not  say  that  even  in  fun.  I  do  not  like  to 
hear  it." 

"It  is  n't  in  fun.  Ask  my  aged  and  highly  respectable 
great-aunt,  Miss  Greer,  in  Philadelphia,  and  you'll  learn 
something  to  my  disadvantage." 

"I  shall,"  said  the  girl  gravely,  "if  I  ever  go  back 
there.  Did  you  live  with  her?" 

"For  a  time.  After  my  college  course  she  sent  me  on  a 
year's  tour  and  then  made  me  take  one  of  those  ornamen- 
taj  post-graduate  courses  that  lead  into  the  lily-fingered 
occupations  that  are  neither  professions  nor  business. 
She  had  a  fond  hope  that  I  'd  take  to  diplomacy." 

"No!"  said  the  girl  with  unflattering  surprise.  "I 
know  many  diplomats.  I  do  not  think  you  would  be  suc 
cessful  there." 

"I'm  about  as  diplomatic  as  a  punch  in  the  eye," 
admitted  her  companion.  "The  old  lady  considered  it 
plumb  disgusting  of  me  not  to  take  to  refined  interna 
tional  mendacity.  But  then  I  did  n't  take  to  much  of 
anything  else  that  she  laid  out  for  me.  I  had  vulgar 
tastes.  I  wanted  to  go  into  the  newspaper  business,  and 
when  I  'd  learnt  it,  have  Great- Aunt  kindly  buy  me  a 
paper  to  play  with.  Great- Aunt  did  n't  see  it  that  way. 
She  cut  me  off  with  a  small  amount  of  hard  cash  and  a 
large  amount  of  hard  talk,  and  I  took  a  School  of  Journal 
ism  course  and  eventually  drifted  out  here  because  I  liked 
what  I  remembered  of  the  town  and  wanted  to  bore  in 
where  I  was  n't  hampered  by  friends  and  acquaintances. 
Does  that  strike  you  as  a  record  of  glowing  success?  Con 
sidering  that  I'm  nearly  twenty-seven  years  old,  and 
have  n't  made  a  scratch  on  the  face  of  the  world  yet?" 

"But  you  began  late,"  condoned  his  companion.  "And 


64  COMMON  CAUSE 

you  are  still  learning.  But  I  cannot  see  why  your  aunt 
should  object  to  your  wishing  to  own  a  newspaper.  One 
would  say,  a  harmless  ambition." 

"One  that  I'm  quite  unlikely  to  realize,  now.  As  for 
its  being  harmless,  why,  my  dear  child  —  excuse  the  free 
dom  of  an  aged  golf-professor  —  there 's  a  charge  of  dy 
namite  in  every  font  of  type." 

"Then  you  have  a  penchant  for  high  explosives?" 

"Have  I?  I  don't  think  I'd  put  it  that  way,"  mused 
Jeremy.  "I've  a  taste  for  adventure.  And  running  a 
newspaper  of  your  own  has  always  seemed  to  me  about 
the  liveliest  and  most  adventurous  job  going.  But  I  don't 
want  to  blow  things  up." 
«v_  "What  do  you  want  to  do?" 

"Oh,  just  to  have  a  hand  in  things,  in  a  real,  live  Ameri 
can  community  like  this,  where  the  soil  is  good  and  new 
ideas  sprout.  I  'd  like  to  get  into  the  political  fight,  too. 
A  really  good  one,  I  mean,  with  something  worth  aiming 
at." 

"That  I  can  understand.  But  I  still  fail  to  make  you 
fit  into  this  environment."  %_ 

"What  about  yourself? "  he  countered  "Have  n't  you 
rather  the  air  of  coming  out  of  the  great  world  and  con 
descending  to  this  raw  and  rural  town?  " 

"Have  I?,  Have  I  been  condescending  to  you?" 

"If  you  had,  it  would  be  more  than  I  deserve,"  he  said 
contritely.  "I'd  no  business  to  say  that.  And  I  did  n't 
mean  it,  anyway.  But  this  is  a  queer  place  for  you  to  be, 
is  n't  it?" 

"Not  for  my  purposes?" 

"Are  you  specializing  at  Old  Central?" 

"One  might  call  it  that.  I  made  inquiries  for  the  most 


COMMON  CAUSE  65 

typically  American  college,  and  a  list  was  made  up  for  me. 
I  chose  the  University  of  Centralia  to  be  with  my  moth 
er's  cousin,  Miss  Pritchard." 

"Just  like  that?  All  yourself?" 

"All  myself,"  she  assented  gravely. 

"You  came  here  to  get  Americanized?" 

"Yes.  My  mother  married  again.  A  German.  A  man 
of  great  scientific  attainments  and  high  position.  He  is 
very  gentle  and  vague  and  absent-minded,  and  good  to 
me.  And  when  I  told  them  that  I  would  like  to  take  my 
own  money  and  come  here  to  my  own  country  for  a  year 
before"  —  she  hesitated  almost  imperceptibly  —  "be 
fore  anything  was  settled  for  me,  he  consented.  Think 
what  a  wrench  it  must  have  been  for  his  old-world  preju 
dices  against  emancipated  women  and  all  that!" 

"Yet  I  don't  think  you  need  Americanizing.  You're  a 
real  American  type  if  there  ever  was  one." 

She  flushed  a  little.  "I  like  to  hear  that.  My  father 
would  have  liked  it.  What  makes  you  say  it?" 

"It's  —  it's  your  honesty,  I  think.  There's  a  quality 
of  frankness  about  you  that  could  be  — well,  almost 
brutal,  I  think.  Do  you  know  what  I  mean?" 

"I  suppose  I  am  a  crank.  That  is  American  enough, 
is  it  not?"  she  laughed.  "A  crank  about  the  truth.  I 
hate  anything  that  even  suggests  a  lie,  or  a  dodging,  or 
an  evasion.  So  perhaps  I  should  not  like  your  newspaper 
profession." 

"But  that's  just  it!"  he  cried  eagerly.  "If  one  had  a 
paper  of  one's  own,  he  could  make  his  own  rules  for  the 
game." 

"If  he  were  big  enough  —  and  brave  enough." 

"Brave  enough,"  he  repeated.    "Eli  Wade  said  that 


66  COMMON  CAUSE 

about  you,  too.  Reading  your  character  from  your  shoes, 
you  know.  That  you  had  courage  and  honesty.  I  think 
he  thought  it  a  rare  thing  in  a  woman." 

"It  is  not,"  she  flashed.  "But  if  I  have,  it  is  no  credit 
to  me.  I  have  wholly  loved  and  trusted  only  one  person 
on  earth.  That  was  my  father,  and  he  was  the  soul  of 
truth.  So,  some  of  my  friends  laugh  at  me  a  little  and 
think  me  a  crank,  because  I  have  —  what  do  you  Ameri 
cans  —  we  Americans  say?  —  no  use  for  any  one  whom  I 
cannot  wholly  trust." 

"And  you  would  be  hard,  too,"  he  said. 

"Perhaps.  If  I  were,  it  would  be  because  I  could  not 
help  it.  I  think  that  I  do  things  because  something  inside 
makes  me  before  I  have  even  time  to  consider,  some 
times." 

"Like  your  standing  up  alone  at  the  Federated  Ger 
man  meeting.  By  the  way,  I  brought  my  story  of  it  for 
you  to  read." 

She  held  out  her  hand  for  the  proofs.  "I  am  glad," 
she  said. 

She  read  it,  slowly  and  studiously,  and  as  she  read  an 
expression,  new  to  Jeremy  in  the  changeful  charm  of  her 
face,  puzzled  his  watchful  eyes. 

"  It  is  very  vivid,"  she  said,  "and  enthusiastic." 

She  rose.  On  their  way  back  to  the  Pritchard  house 
she  plied  him  with  questions  bearing  on  the  technique  of 
journalism.  As  he  stood,  bareheaded  under  the  porch 
light  looking  up  at  her,  she  asked : 

"May  I  keep  the  proof  of  the  article?" 

"Yes.  You  like  it,  then?" 

"  I  love  it.   But  I  am  glad  that  it  was  not  published." 

"Why?" 


COMMON  CAUSE  67 

"There  is  too  much  Me  in  it."  She  paused.  "Did  I 
seem  to  you  like  that  —  then?" 

"Yes.  And  more." 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  am  glad  that  it  was  not  pub 
lished,"  she  repeated.  "It  would  have  said  to  too  many 
people — "  She  hesitated. 

"What?  "he  asked. 

For  the  first  time  her  eyes  faltered  before  his.  They 
were  hesitant,  and  deep-shadowed  and  troubled. 

"What?"  he  repeated. 

"What  should  have  been  said  to  only  one." 

"Marcia!"  he  cried. 

But  the  door  had  closed  on  her  and  he  barely  heard  her 
soft-toned  "Good-night"  from  beyond  its  jealous  inter 
ception. 


CHAPTER  VI 

A  BSTENTION  from  the  art  and  practice  of  golf  for 
./V.  one  week  had  been  Professor  Robson's  ukase.  Had 
he  foreseen  the  course  of  more  personal  events  he  would 
never  have  issued  it.  For  he  now  had  no  opportunity  of 
seeing  his  pupil  alone.  Nothing  so  direct  as  avoidance 
could  be  charged  against  her.  But  since  that  parting  on 
the  Pritchard  porch,  he  had  never  been  able  to  achieve  so 
much  as  two  minutes  of  her  undivided  time.  Her  eyes, 
when  they  met  his  only  to  be  swiftly  withdrawn,  were 
sweetly  troubled.  The  Eternal  Feminine  within  her  was, 
for  the  time  at  least,  in  flight.  And  along  those  paths  of 
delicate  elusiveness,  the  clumsy  and  pursuing  feet  of  man 
stumble  and  trip.  Jeremy's  soul  was  sorely  tried  and  not 
less  sorely  puzzled. 

If  he  found  difficulties  in  Marcia's  attitude,  his  own 
future  course  with  regard  to  her  was  dubious.  What  could 
he,  in  his  position  and  with  his  resources,  ask  of  her?  To 
wait?  Certainly  nothing  more  than  that.  And  was  even 
that  much  fair  to  her?  His  own  feeling  was  simplicity  it 
self.  Life  had,  in  these  few  short  weeks  of  association, 
summed  and  compressed  itself  into  his  love  for  Marcia 
Ames.  Until  that  abrupt  change  in  the  tone  of  their  rela 
tions  brought  about  by  her  half-acceptance  of  his  devo 
tion,  she  had  never  evinced  anything  more  than  a  frank 
and  confident  comradeship.  Now  he  felt  that  he  might 
speak ; —  if  he  could  find  opportunity.  That  he  could  not, 
almost  caused  him  to  accuse  Mareia  of  unfairness.  Yet 
could  he  honorably  ask  her  to  marry  him  and  tie  herself 


COMMON  CAUSE  69 

to  a  meager  and  as  yet  unpromising  career?  Within  him 
self  Jeremy  had  begun  to  assume  that  confidence  of  future 
success  which  comes  with  the  assured  sense  of  workman 
ship.  He  would  cheerfully  gamble  his  own  future  on  it. 
But  how  could  he  ask  her  to  risk,  hers?  Even  supposing 
that  she  cared  for  him!  There  was  the  thought  that 
ached ;  the  uncertainty  of  it.  In  any  case  he  had  to  know 
how  it  stood  with  him  in  her  heart. 

Upon  her  inviolable  truthfulness  he  could  depend  for  a 
full  and  fair  answer,  if  he  were  able  to  state  his  case.  He 
knew  that  all  her  frank  and  unevasive  courage  would  an 
swer  to  his  demand ;  that  she  would  look  that  fate,  or  any 
other,  steadily  in  the  eyes.  But  not  before  her  own  good 
time.  And  that  the  time  was  not  yet,  became  sufficiently 
apparent,  one  week  before  the  match  when  the  lessons 
were  resumed,  for  with  the  resumption  Buddy  Higman 
was  quietly  established  at  once  as  caddy,  chaperon,  and 
dragon  with  the  added  qualities  of  the  modestly  adhesive 
burdock.  The  skill  and  technique  of  "No.  4.  —  M.  Ames " 
prospered  and  improved  mightily,  which  is  more  than 
can  be  said  of  the  disposition  of  her  instructor. 

Some  men's  work  would  have  suffered.  Not  Jeremy's. 
He  was  of  that  fortunate  temperament  which,  keeping  its 
troubles  to  itself,  boils  them  out  into  steam  and  trans 
forms  the  steam  into  energy.  Besides,  he  had  now  "  the 
grip  of  his  pen."  He  derived  a  glowing  satisfaction  from 
the  expert  performance  of  his  craft.  The  editorial  page 
was  hospitable  to  him,  especially  for  contributions  in 
lighter  vein.  Many  special  assignments  for  work  out  of 
the  ordinary,  calling  for  a  knack  of  description  or  charac 
terization,  came  to  him.  His  writings  were  beginning  to 
earn  the  knighthood  conferred  by  the  clipping  shears  and 


70  COMMON  CAUSE 

the  paste-pot.  Newspapers  in  larger  cities  than  Fenches- 
ter  copied  and  privately  asked  questions  about  them.  But 
what  made  it  all  so  worth  while,  what  gave  a  touch  of 
exaltation  to  the  dogged  purpose  for  success,  was  the  con 
viction  that  all  this  forwarded  him  upon  the  road  which 
led  to  Marcia. 

The  tournament  with  Kirk  College,  on  the  Fenchester 
Country  Club  grounds,  was  now  two  days  away.  Jeremy 
had  asked  for  and  obtained  the  assignment  to  cover  it. 
He  had  long  before  applied  for  and  received  the  job  of 
caddying  for  No.  4  of  the  team  opposing  his  own  college, 
which  was  regarded  by  the  visiting  Kirks  as  an  ignoble 
instance  of  loyalty  corrupted  by  the  baser  passions.  How 
ever,  Jeremy  was  perfectly  willing  that  Kirk  should  win ; 
rather  hoped  it  would,  in  fact,  provided  only  the  No.  4  of 
Old  Central  beat  her  man.  He  believed  her  capable  of  do 
ing  it,  unless  her  nerve  faltered,  which  he  deemed  improb 
able.  On  her  most  recent  performances  she  was  from  two 
to  four  strokes  lower  than  any  one  but  himself  and  Buddy 
Higman  appreciated. 

Important  though  the  event  was  to  Jeremy  Robson, 
the  authorities  on  The  Record  considered  it  rather  a  waste 
of  their  brilliant  youngster's  time.  However,  they  were 
appeased  by  the  cropping  out  meantime  of  a  story  so 
much  in  the  Robson  line  that  it  might  have  been  made  to 
order  for  him.  Wackley,  the  managing  editor,  outlined 
it  to  him,  when  he  arrived  in  the  morning. 

"Robson,  do  you  know  a  queer  old  bat  up  on  Banks 
Street  who  runs  a  shoe  surgery?" 
,    "Eli  Wade?  Yes;  quite  well." 

"He's  a  nut  of  the  old  Know-Nothing  kind,  is  n't  he? 
Hates  all  foreigners  and  all  that?" 


COMMON  CAUSE  71 

"He's  a  pretty  hard-shelled  Yankee." 

"Well;  he's  done  it  this  time.  Made  a  fine  young  riot 
for  himself  last  night.  It  seems  he's  been  pasting  car 
toons  and  mottoes  in  his  show  window;  and  some  of  the 
younger  fellows  from  the  Deutscher  Club,  who  pass  there 
on  their  way  home,  naturally  got  sore.  Last  night  with 
a  few  beers  aboard,  they  stopped  and  gave  him  a  raree 
serenade.  Out  comes  the  old  boy  in  his  nighty  and  makes 
'em  a  red-hot  speech.  They  give  him  the  whoop,  and  he 
begins  to  damn  'em  all  back  to  Germany." 

"  Yes;  he's  got  fighting  stuff  in  him,"  agreed  Jeremy. 

"Too  much  for  his  own  good.  Somebody  ups  with  a 
rock,  and  down  comes  the  big  boot  over  the  door.  Well, 
the  old  boy  goes  dippy  over  that.  Dives  inside  and  grabs 
up  a  hammer  and  right  into  them.  First  thing  you  know, 
they  have  him  on  a  rail  —  a  scantling  from  that  new 
building  on  the  corner  —  and  are  yelling  for  tar.  It  might 
have  been  serious  for  the  old  boy,  but  just  then  along 
comes  Andy  Galpin  of  The  Guardian.  You  know  him; 
he's  some  young  husky.  Guard  on  the  O.  C.  team  for 
three  years.  Well,  he  bucks  the  center  and  lays  out  a 
couple  of  the  merry  villagers  and  there 's  a  pretty  mix-up, 
and  I  understand  Galpin  got  one  in  the  eye  that  did  n't 
improve  his  make-up.  But  the  boys  were  sick  of  the  fun 
anyway,  and  they  let  Galpin  get  away  with  it  and  take 
old  Wade  home.  Instead  of  doing  the  sensible  thing  and 
sleeping  it  off,  Wade  gets  all  het  up,  and  swears  out 
warrants  and  they're  going  to  thrash  it  out  in  police 
court  this  noon,  in  time  for  the  edition.  Probably  Wade'll 
make  a  speech.  Anyhow,  there'll  be  a  circus  when 
he  goes  on  the  stand.  We  want  a  rattling  good  story 
on  it;  and  put  in  your  best  touches  on  the  old  boy.  He'll 


72  COMMON  CAUSE 

do  for  a  local  character  to  hang  all  sorts  of  stories  on, 
later." 

"But  look  here,  Mr.  Wackley :  I  know  Eli  Wade  pretty 
well.  He's  —  he's  a  sort  of  friend  of  mine." 

"What  if  he  is?  You  can  have  fun  with  him,  can't 
you?  He  won't  know  the  difference.  And  if  he  does,  he 
won't  care.  Those  fanatical  guys  are  crazy  for  publicity. 
He'll  eat  it  up." 

It  was  Jeremy's  settled  intention,  so  he  told  himself,  as 
he  set  out  for  court,  to  write  an  account  which,  while 
lively,  should  fairly  set  forth  his  friend's  side.  When  he 
saw  Eli  Wade  at  court  his  heart  misgave  him,  the  Boot  & 
Shoe  Surgeon  looked  so  whitely  wrathful.  The  proceed 
ings  dwindled  into  nothing.  The  "life"  was  out  of  the 
story,  quite  to  one  reporter's  relief,  when  his  evil  genius 
inspired  Eli  Wade  to  address  the  court.  At  the  outset  he 
was  simple  and  dignified.  But  counsel  for  the  serenaders 
interpolated  some  well-timed  taunts  which  roused  him  to 
indignation.  He  had  not  slept  that  night,  for  shame  of 
the  treatment  to  which  he  had  been  subjected;  and  his 
self-control  was  in  abeyance.  Indignation,  as  he  answered 
the  taunts,  waxed  to  fury.  He  burst  into  a  savage  and  ab 
surd  invective,  aimed  at  "German  interlopers,"  "foreign 
clubs  that  run  our  city,"  and  the  like;  his  voice  shrilling 
louder  and  louder  until  he  was  drowned  out  by  the  un 
controllable  laughter  of  the  court-room.  It  was  all  quite 
absurd  and  pitiable.  Instinctively  Jeremy's  pencil  took  it 
down.  Here  was  his  story,  ready  to  hand. 

As  he  sat  in  the  office,  the  grip  of  characterization  set 
tled  upon  him.  Oddments  and  gleams  of  past  conversa 
tions  in  the  "Infirmary"  came  back  to  him,  and  he  em 
bodied  them.  Stroke  by  stroke  there  grew  up  under  his 


COMMON  CAUSE  73 

hand  a  portrait,  crude  from  haste  but  vivid,  telling,  and  a 
stimulant  to  mirth,  not  always  of  the  kindliest.  It  was 
not  intentionally  unfair;  it  was  never  malicious  in  pur 
pose.  But  it  was  the  more  deadly  in  effect.  By  the  magic 
transformation  of  print  it  made  out  of  an  unpolished,  sim 
ple,  generous,  fervent,  and  thoughtful  artisan,  a  laugh 
able  homunculus.  Yet  there  was  in  it  no  element  of 
"fake."  Jeremy  could  have  defended  it  at  all  points. 
Any  newspaper  judgment  would  have  credited  it  with 
due  fidelity  to  facts.  The  sum-total  was  a  subtle  and 
gross  misrepresentation.  Had  the  writer  read  it  over  he 
would  perhaps  have  seen  this  for  himself.  But  there  was 
no  time.  He  barely  caught  the  edition.  Wackley's: 
"Great  stuff,  my  boy!  You'll  hear  of  this,"  happily  dis 
tracted  him  from  the  stirrings  of  a  conscience  which 
faintly  wished  to  know  how  Eli  Wade  would  take  it. 

"You're  doing  golf  to-morrow,"  continued  the  man 
aging  editor.  "  Don't  bother  to  come  to  the  office  first." 

Profiting  by  this,  Jeremy,  an  hour  before  match  time, 
called  at  Miss  Pritchard's  for  Marcia.  He  was  informed 
that  she  had  left  on  an  errand,  but  would  meet  him  at 
the  Country  Club.  When,  just  before  the  first  pair  teed 
up,  she  appeared,  her  mentor  was  startled,  she  looked  so 
wan  and  languid. 

"Good  Heavens!"  said  Jeremy  in  a  whisper.  "You 
have  n't  let  this  thing  get  on  your  nerves?" 

She  shook  her  head.  Her  eyes  did  not  avoid  his  now; 
but  the  changeful  lights  seemed  to  have  dwindled  to  the 
merest  flicker  in  inscrutable  depths. 

"Let  me  get  you  a  cup  of  coffee.  That  '11  brace  you  up." 

"I  shall  be  all  right,"  she  said  with  an  effort. 

At  the  call  for  the  fourth  pair  she  stepped  to  the  tee 


74  COMMON  CAUSE 

and  hit  a  ball  straight  down  the  center  for  i6o-odd  yards. 
It  was  the  virtue  of  her  game  that  she  was  straight  on  the 
pin,  nine  shots  out  of  ten,  thereby  overcoming  the  handi 
cap  of  greater  distance  sure  to  be  against  her  in  college 
competition.  Great  and  grinful  was  the  satisfaction  of  her 
trainer  at  observing  the  demeanor  of  her  opponent.  When 
he  was  presented  to  her,  that  gentleman,  a  sightly  and 
powerful  youth  notable  for  his  long  drives,  took  one  ex 
tended,  admiring,  and  astounded  survey  of  "M.  Ames" 
—  he  had  n't  known  what  the  bewildering  fates  held  in 
store  for  him  —  inquired  privately  but  passionately  of 
high  Heaven  and  his  team-mates  how  a  fellow  was  going 
to  keep  his  eye  on  the  ball  with  a  vision  like  that  to  look 
at,  and  entered  upon  a  disastrous  career  by  nearly  slay 
ing,  with  his  first  drive,  a  squirrel  in  a  tree  a  good  hun 
dred  yards  off  the  course.  He  recovered  in  time  to  record 
an  unparalleled  ten  for  the  first  hole.  M.  Ames,  dead  on 
the  pin,  scored  a  correct  five.  Everson  (the  Kirk  boy) 
contributed  three  putts  on  the  second  green,  and  M. 
Ames  won  it  in  a  sound  four.  But  as  his  pupil  took  her 
stance  for  a  brassie,  after  a  respectable  tee-shot  from  the 
third,  Jeremy  perceived  with  dismay  that  her  hands  were 
shaking.  Up  went  her  head,  as  she  swung,  and  the  ball 
darted  from  the  toe  of  her  club  into  the  rough.  She  was 
out  in  three,  but  again  she  succumbed  to  star-gazing  on 
her  mashie  shot,  and  her  opponent  still  triangulating  the 
course  like  a  care-free  surveyor,  was  able  to  halve  it. 
From  then  on,  Jeremy  the  mentor  was  in  agony.  Ex 
cept  off  the  tees,  where  she  clung  to  her  beautiful,  free- 
limbed,  lissome  swing,  as  it  were  by  instinct,  No.  4  for 
Old  Central  topped,  sliced,  pulled,  and  scarified  the  help 
less  turf.  The  gallant  foeman  was  so  distressed  at  her 


COMMON  CAUSE  75 

obviously  unusual  ineptitudes,  that  his  own  game  went 
glimmering  down  the  grassy  bypaths  that  lead  to  traps 
and  bunkers.  Only  this  involuntary  gallantry  saved  M. 
Ames  from  practical  extinction.  As  it  was,  she  was  two 
down  at  the  end  of  the  first  nine,  with  a  dismal  fifty-four. 
As  they  left  the  ninth  green  she  turned  to  Jeremy: 

"Would  you  mind  not  caddying  for  me  the  rest  of  the 
match?" 

"  But  Marcia ! "  he  cried,  aghast.   "  What 's  wrong?  " 

"You  have  got  on  my  nerves." 

"  I  have  n't  said  a  word  except  to  steady  you." 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  said  inflexibly. 

An  angry  gleam  flashed  in  Jeremy's  eyes.  "Of  course, 
if  you  feel  that  way  about  it  —  " 

"  I  do.  I  am  sorry,"  she  repeated. 

"  Do  you  mind  my  following  you?  "  he  asked  with  semi- 
sardonic  intent. 

"  I  should  rather  you  did  not." 

"Well,  good  Heavens!  Something  has  happened  to 
spoil  your  nerve." 

"No." 

" Then  what—  " 

"  Come  for  me  after  the  match.  We  can  talk  then." 

With  this  Jeremy  had  to  be  content.  Relieved  of  his 
presence,  M.  Ames  summoned  all  her  force  to  the  rescue 
of  her  nerves,  and  astonished  her  opponent  with  a  forty- 
four,  steadily  and  carefully  played.  The  match,  which 
had  originally  been  counted  upon  by  a  careful  captain  as 
a  probable  win  for  Old  Central,  was  a  tie,  under  the  scor 
ing  system  agreed  upon. 

Dismal  misgivings,  meanwhile,  had  beset  Jeremy  Rob- 
son,  the  promising  young  reporter  of  The  Record.  Al- 


76  COMMON  CAUSE 

ready  he  was,  in  his  heart,  on  the  defensive  when,  as  he 
and  Marcia  turned  out  at  the  gate,  she  said : 

"  Did  you  write  the  article  about  Eli  Wade?  " 

"Yes." 

"I  thought  it  must  have  been  yours,"  said  her  lips. 
The  tone  said,  "  I  hoped  it  was  not." 

"That's  a  good  sign,  for  people  to  recognize  my  style. 
What  did  you  think  of  it?" 

"  It  was  clever." 

There  was  no  warmth  in  the  tone.  Rather  a  reluctant 
relinquishment  of  disbelief. 

"I'm  glad  you  liked  it." 

"  I  did  not  like  it.  I  hated  it." 

"Oh,  that's  the  personal  view,"  he  said  indulgently. 

"Perhaps." 

"The  Bellair  Journal  has  offered  me  a  job  on  the 
strength  of  it." 

"  Were  you  obliged  to  take  that  —  what  is  the  term  — 
that  assignment  ?  " 

"A  reporter  takes  what  is  handed  out  to  him." 

"I  suppose  so.  That  would  be  the  danger.  I  should 
fear  that." 

"  Fear  what?  I  can't  imagine  you  fearing  anything." 

"  I  should  fear  getting  into  that  habit  of  mind.  Com 
plaisant.  Servile." 

"That's  an  ugly  word,  Marcia,"  he  said,  flushing. 

"  I  am  sorry.  Perhaps  there  is  a  side  to  it  that  I  do  not 
understand.  But  surely,  oh,  surely,  you  need  not  have 
written  it  in  that  way!" 

"My  dear  girl!  Personal  feeling  has  no  relation  to 
newspaper  work.  I  can't  juggle  with  facts  because  the 
man  happens  to  be  my  friend.  That  is  n't  honest." 


COMMON  CAUSE  77 

"Is  this  honest?"  She  held  up  the  clipping  which  she 
took  from  her  pocket. 

Jeremy  quailed  before  the  hurtness  of  her  eyes,  which 
was  wonder  more  than  reproach. 

"There  is  n't  a  word  in  it,"  he  began,  "  that  —  " 

"There  is  not  a  thought  in  it  that  is  not  a  cruel  injus 
tice." 

"You  Ve  no  right  to  say  that." 

"That  is  true.  You  remind  me." 

"Oh,  Marcia,"  he  cried  miserably.  "Don't  take  it 
that  way.  I  'd  have  thrown  up  my  job  sooner  than  write 
it  if  I  'd  known  that  you'd  feel  it  so." 

"It  does  not  matter  about  me.  But  you!  How  could 
you  have  done  it!  How  could  you  have  used  his  gentle, 
swreet,  simple  philosophy  —  his  talks  between  friends  in 
the  shop  —  to  make  a  mock  of  him?  " 

"I  did  n't.   I  swear  I  didn't." 

She  put  the  clipping  into  his  hand.  Re-read,  now,  the 
words  were  self-damnatory.  Jeremy  groaned. 

"  It  has  hurt  him  so  terribly,"  she  said. 

"You've  seen  him?" 

"Yes.  He  has  resigned  his  place  on  the  School  Board. 
Mr.  Dolge  advised  him  to  get  off  before  he  was  laughed  off." 

Jeremy  stared  at  the  words  of  his  facile  portraiture  as 
if  they  had  suddenly  been  informed  with  venom.  "And 
he  was  so  proud  of  it! "  he  muttered. 

"It  was  a  large  thing  in  his  little  life,"  said  the  girl. 
"He  feels  disgraced." 

Wackley's  easy  and  cynical  assumption  that  the  sub 
ject  of  the  sketch  would  be  "  crazy  for  publicity  "  recalled 
itself  to  Jeremy.  He  swore  beneath  his  breath.  "When 
did  you  see  Eli?" 


78  COMMON  CAUSE 

"This  morning.  At  the  hospital." 

"The  hospital!   Is  he  injured  that  badly?" 

"  No.  You  had  not  heard?  It  is  Mr.  Galpin,  a  friend  of 
Eli's  —  who  stood  by  him." 

"Andy  Galpin!  How  bad  is  it?" 

"Much  worse  than  they  supposed.  He  will  be  nearly 
blind  in  one  eye." 

"Good  Lord!" 

"And  is  he  a  friend  of  yours,  also;  Mr.  Galpin?" 

"Andy?  Yes;  of  course  he  is." 

"  But  you  made  no  inquiry  about  him." 

"  I  did  n't  know." 

Her  eyes,  steady  and  deep-lighted,  still  did  not  judge 
him,  still  pathetically  wondered  at  him. 

"Marcia!"  he  broke  out.  "I  haven't  been  able  to 
think  of  anything  but  you.  I  have  n't  had  anything  in 
my  heart — " 

"Please!" 

He  stopped,  appealing  to  her  with  his  look. 

"  I  think  you  have  to  think  of  Eli  Wade." 

Jeremy  winced  and  was  silent.  Their  car  pulled  up  at 
the  Pritchard  gate.  She  got  out,  but  did  not  ask  him  to 
come  in. 

"The  worst  of  it  is  that  it's  hurt  you,"  he  muttered. 
"I  did  n't  know  that  you  cared  so  much  about  him." 

"It  was  not  he  that  I  cared  so  much  about,"  returned 
Marcia  steadily.  "  It  was  you." 

She  turned  and  passed  into  the  house.  Try  as  he  might, 
on  his  way  to  the  hospital  to  see  Andrew  Galpin,  Jeremy 
could  derive  from  that  low-toned  avowal  neither  hope  nor 
comfort  for  a  sick  heart  and  a  grilling  conscience. 

The  doctors  would  not  let  him  see  Galpin. 


COMMON  CAUSE  79 

As  by  tradition  bound,  his  "story"  of  the  golf  match 
focused  on  the  one  and  unique  girl-player  on  the  team. 
She  was  the  "human  interest"  center.  So  skillfully  did 
he  skirt  the  edge  of  her  bad  play  that  only  an  analysis  of 
the  score  would  apprise  the  reader  of  the  partial  failure. 
Her  good  shots  were  described  in  glowing  terms.  To  her, 
the  casual  reader  would  have  supposed,  belonged  the 
chief  credit  on  Old  Central's  side;  and  the  copy-reader, 
who  was  no  golfer,  in  good  faith  headed  it  "  Miss  Ames 
Gains  Tie  for  O.  C." ;  the  final  team  score  having  also 
been  all  even,  though  it  should  have  been  Old  Central's 
victory  had  No.  4  played  up  to  her  standard.  The  writ 
ing  of  the  article  cheered  up  the  writer  notably.  Here  was 
no  wounding  wrord  or  acid-bitten  phrase.  There  was  only 
the  clear  purpose  to  please.  Again  Jeremy  had  been 
caught  and  carried  in  the  whirl  of  his  semi-creative  en 
thusiasm. 

The  quality  was  still  there  when  he  read  it  over  on  the 
following  day.  Intent  upon  his  sunshine-scattering  he 
sent  an  early  proof  to  "  M.  Ames0"  He  felt,  on  the  whole, 
that  he  had  been,  if  not  unjustly,  at  least  un tenderly 
treated.  Overnight  he  had  been  able  to  persuade  him 
self  that  the  Wade  sketch  represented  a  fine  type  of  loy 
alty  to  profession  rising  triumphant  above  personal  feel 
ings.  All  that  was  needed  to  reestablish  him  firmly  in 
the  conviction  of  righteousness,  was  Marcia's  apprecia 
tion  of  his  golf-story.  He  went  to  the  Pritchard  house  to 
receive  it.  Marcia  was  not  there.  She  had  gone  for  a  few 
days'  visit  at  the  Magnus  Laurens'  country  place.  Jeremy 
sent  a  hasty,  reproachful  and  alarmed  note  after  her. 
Why  had  she  left  without  a  word?  What  did  it  all  mean? 
When  was  she  coming  back?  When  could  he  see  her  and 


8o  COMMON  CAUSE 

explain  ?  As  a  composition  it  was  distinctly  below  stand 
ard  for  the  rising  young  star  of  The  Record.  But  at  least 
it  could  boast  the  highly-prized  quality  of  heart-interest. 

Jeremy  called  again  at  the  hospital  to  see  Andrew  Gal- 
pin.  That  battered  warrior  received  him  with  immitiga 
ble  cheerfulness. 

"Ay-ah,"  he  explained.  ''Something  busted  inside  the 
eye.  It  ain't  as  bad  as  they  thought.  They're  going  to 
save  quite  a  glimmer  of  sight  in  it,  and  *  my  right  eye  is 
a  good  little  eye,' "  he  chanted.  "Back  on  the  job  in  a 
week  or  so." 

Jeremy,  craving  solace,  asked  whether  his  friend  had 
seen  the  Eli  Wade  story;  then,  remembering  his  disabil 
ity,  corrected  himself  hastily. 

"Sure  I  saw  it.  Or  had  it  seen  for  me.  I  made  'em  read 
me  both  papers  from  end  to  end.  That  was  a  crackajack 
story.  You  keep  on  like  this,  young  fellow,  and  Fenches- 
ter'll  be  too  small  to  hold  you." 

"I'm  afraid  it  hurt  Eli  Wade's  feelings,"  said  the  vis 
itor  hesitantly.  "Did  he  say  anything  to  you  about  it?" 

"Ay-ah.   He  spoke  of  it." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

1 '  We-ell ;  he  said  —  Sure  you  want  to  know?  "  Jeremy 
nodded.  "He  said,  'I'd  never  have  believed  it  from  the 
way  he  wears  his  shoes.'  Like  the  poor  old  nut,  ain't  it?" 

"Andy,  was  the  story  so  rotten?" 

"I  just  told  you  it  was  a  crackajack  piece  of  work." 

"I'm  not  talking  about  that.  I'm  talking  about  my 
doing  it  at  all." 

"It  was  your  assignment,  was  n't  it?" 

"Certainly,  it  was,"  assented  Jeremy,  comforted  and 
justified.  "  I  had  to  take  it  or  quit  my  job,  did  n't  I?" 


COMMON  CAUSE  81 

"Oh,  I  guess  you're  stronger  than  that  on  The  Rec 
ord." 

"What  would  you  have  done  in  my  place?" 

"Me?  Oh,  I  'm  a  reporter.  I  reckon  I  'd  have  done  the 
story."  But  there  was  no  conviction  in  Galpin's  tone. 
Jeremy  wished  he  could  have  seen  the  bandaged  eyes. 
He  mistrusted  that  they  would  have  avoided  his. 

"That's  part  of  the  business,"  he  declared,  self-de- 
fensively. 

"That 's  the  hell  of  the  business,"  said  Andrew  Galpin. 

Jeremy  left  the  hospital  feeling  that  Marcia  Ames  and 
Andrew  Galpin  had  said  much  the  same  thing  to  him 
about  his  article,  in  widely  different  terms. 

Marcia's  reply  to  his  note  came  several  days  later.  Its 
brevity  did  not  conceal  an  indefinable  and  disturbing  re 
serve.  She  would  see  him,  she  wrote,  when  she  returned. 
With  the  note  was  inclosed  the  proof  of  the  golf  report. 
Its  margin  carried  a  penciled  note. 

"Can  you  not  see  that  this  only  makes  it  worse?" 

Jeremy  read  his  cherished  report  once  more,  and  saw. 

It  was  a  lie. 


CHAPTER  VII 

LAKE  SKOHOTA  thrusts  a  long  and  slender  arm 
past  Fenchester  to  throw  it  cherishingly  about  a  tiny 
island,  cut  off  from  the  University  campus  and  made  part 
of  it  again  by  an  arched  bridge  overhanging  dappled  wa 
ters.  Willows  bending  from  the  islet's  bank  weave  their 
thousand-fingered  enchantments  above  the  dreaming 
shallows.  The  subtle  spice  of  sedge  and  marsh-bloom 
blows  from  it  to  disperse  its  spell  upon  the  air  that  whis 
pers  a  never-finished  tale  of  secrecy  and  sorcery  to  the 
trees.  It  is  a  place  of  witchery. 

The  sheen  of  countless  stars  glowed  above  the  bridge 
and  wavered  below  it,  as  two  figures  emerged  from  the 
pathway  and  paused  at  the  summit  of  the  arch  to  lean 
and  look  down  through  the  darkness  at  the  blackly  opal 
escent  gleam  of  the  waters.  A  canoe  stole  around  the 
bend  and  slipped  beneath  them,  the  stroke  of  its  paddles 
accentuated  in  cool,  delicious  plashes  of  sound  as  it  en 
tered  the  arch. 

"Another  two,"  said  the  soft  and  happy  voice  of  a  girl, 
rising  to  them ;  and  a  boyish  voice  answered : 

"The  night  is  full  of  them." 

The  canoe  merged  with  the  darkness.  The  two  figures 
on  the  bridge,  silent,  followed  it  with  their  blind  specula 
tions  into  an  unknown  world.  From  far  across  the  open 
spaces  of  the  lake  came  the  music  of  women's  voices 
blended,  which  the  night  breeze  hushed  to  hear;  a  modu 
lation  of  wistful,  minor  strains : 


COMMON  CAUSE  i  83 

"  In  dreams  she  grows  not  older 
The  lands  of  Dream  among, 
Though  all  the  world  wax  colder 
Though  all  the  songs  be  sung." 

The  latter  couplet  was  repeated,  a  haunting,  yearning, 
falling  melody,  that  suddenly  swelled  and  rose  into  the 
splendid,  fulfilling  major: 

"  In  dreams  doth  he  behold  her 
Still  fair  and  kind  and  young." 

The  taller  figure  on  the  bridge  stirred  from  a  dream. 
"That  is  your  song,  Marcia." 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl,  a  little  away  from  him  in  the  dark 
ness.  "I  arranged  it  for  them,  to  be  sung  so;  in  parts." 

"  You  sang  it  the  first  day  we  really  began  to  know  each 
other." 

"Very  long  ago,"  she  assented,  with  her  serene  gravity. 
"Two  months,  is  it  not?" 

"  Or  years.  Or  centuries.   It  does  n't  seem  to  matter." 

"  I  am  glad  they  sang  that  to-night.  For  us,"  she  con 
cluded,  after  the  briefest  of  pauses. 

He  put  his  hand  over  hers,  which  rested  on  the  stone 
coping  of  the  bridge.  She  did  not  stir  nor  speak.  But  it 
was  his  hand,  not  hers,  that  trembled.  A  heavy  row- 
boat  came  lumbering  down  the  reach,  two  students  at 
the  oars. 

"Politics  for  me,"  said  one  confidently.  "We're  going 
to  run  the  country  from  this  end  now.  I  'm  for  Mart 
Embree's  band-wagon." 

"Too  dull,"  said  another.  "Gimme  a  touch  of  Nuh 
York." 

"  It's  a  rough  world  for  poor,  lost  lambs  like  us  to  be 
spilled  into,  anyway,"  boomed  a  resonant  bass  from  the 


84  COMMON  CAUSE 

stern  seat,  and  their  laughter  died  away  around  the  bend 
of  the  island. 

Marcia  Ames  freed  her  fingers  from  her  companion's 
clasp. 

"Jem,"  she  said. 

"I  love  you,"  he  said. 

Her  figure,  dim-white  in  the  darkness,  neither  with 
drew  from  nor  swayed  toward  him.  But  he  thought  that 
he  saw  her  head  half  turn  with  a  sorrowful  intent. 

"  Jem,"  she  said  again,  "  I  came  here  to  — " 

"I  love  you,  Marcia,"  he  repeated  with  a  still  insist 
ence. 

"Wait.   I  am  going  away." 

"When?" 

"Very  soon.  This  week.   Perhaps  sooner." 

"For  how  long?" 

"Will  you  not  understand,  Jem?  I  am  going  away." 

The  quiet  repetition  fell,  chill  and  deadening,  upon  his 
heart. 

"From  me?" 

"  From  everything  here." 

"Why?" 

"I  must." 

"Then  you  don't  care!" 

She  was  silent. 

"You  're  going  back?"  He  made  an  obvious  effort  to 
gather  his  force  for  the  determinative  word.  "Abroad?  " 

"Yes." 

"  I'll  follow  you,"  he  declared  grimly. 

"  Now  you  are  angry  with  me,  are  you  not?  "  She  spoke 
with  a  sorrowful,  disappointed  intonation. 

"Haven't  I  a  right  to  be?" 


COMMON  CAUSE  85 

"Have  you?" 

"Tell  me,  if  you  can,  that  you  have  n't  cared  for  me  a 
bit;  not  at  any  time.  You  see,"  he  added  with  conviction 
but  without  triumph,  "you  can't!" 

"  If  I  had  ever  cried  —  in  my  life  —  since  I  was  a  child 
—  I  think  —  I  should  cry  now,"  she  said,  in  little,  un 
even  sections  of  speech. 

"Marcia!"  All  the  anger  passed  away  from  Jem, 
leaving  him  shaken.  "Don't  feel  that  way.  What  has 
happened?  What  have  I  done  to  change  you  toward 
me?" 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  —  more  than  I  have  told  you." 

"Try,"  he  urged.  "Let's  have  it  out!" 

"  I  am  not  clever  at  explaining.  Not  —  not  such  things 
as  this.  There  is  something  that  rises  up  inside  and  — 
and  forbids.  Oh,  Jem!  You  must  know,  without  my  put 
ting  it  into  words." 

"It's  that  cursed  Wade  story,  of  course.  But  that's 
because  you  don't  understand.  Surely,  between  you  and 
me  a  —  a  petty  little  matter  such  as  that  — " 

"Petty!" 

"Why,  Marcia,  it's  just  part  of  the  day's  work.  Ask 
any  newspaper  man.  Ask  Andrew  Galpin." 

"Who  has  perhaps  half-spoiled  his  life  by  defending  his 
friend." 

"That's  different  —  I  'd  have  done  that." 

"Would  you?" 

"Can't  you  believe  that  of  me,  Marcia?  Do  you  think 
I'm  a  coward?" 

"Falsehood  is  always  cowardly,"  she  said  very  low. 
"Perhaps  I  am  abnormal  about  it.  I  cannot  help  it.  I 
was  bred  that  way." 


86  COMMON  CAUSE 

"But  try  to  be  fair  to  me,"  he  pleaded. 

"Fair  to  you?  I  was  more  than  that.  I  could  not  be 
lieve  that  you  had  written  it.  When  I  went  into  Eli 
Wade's  shop  that  morning  there  was  a  strange,  violent 
white-haired  little  man  there  with  him  — " 

"NickMilliken." 

"Yes.  He  said  what  —  what  you  have  said ;  that  it  was 
all  part  of  the  day's  work;  that  you  were  no  worse  than 
any  other  reporter.  He  said  that  you  had  boasted  to  him 
that  nobody  could  control  your  pen." 

Jeremy  groaned .   "  1 1  's  true. ' ' 

"And  then  he  laughed,  and  said  things  about  you  that 
I  would  not  endure  to  hear  —  as  I  told  him." 

"You  defended  me  against  Milliken!" 

"I  tried  to." 

"Can't  you  defend  me  against  yourself,  Marcia?" 

He  could  hear  her  long,  slow-drawn  breath  before  she 
answered.  "I  could  defend  you  against  yourself,  in  my 
own  heart.  But  I  cannot  defend  the  ideal  of  you  that  I 
had  built  up,  against  what  you  have  done  to  it." 

"Could  n't  you  have  told  me?" 

"Told  you  what,  Jem?" 

"That  I  did  represent  an  ideal  to  you.  .Think  what  it 
would  have  meant  to  me  to  —  to  know  that." 

Something  told  him  that  she  was  smiling  in  the  dark 
ness  and  that  there  was  pain  and  pity  as  well  as  a  sweet 
mockery  in  the  smile.  "Could  I  tell  you  that  before  you 
told  me  —  what  you  have  told  me  to-night?  " 

"That  I  love  you?  You  can't  pretend  that  you  did  n't 
know  it.  But  I  'd  no  business  to  tell  you  then :  I  Ve  no 
business  to  tell  you  now,"  he  added  gloomily.  "What 
have  I  got  to  offer  a  girl  like  you ! " 


COMMON  CAUSE  87 

"That  would  not  matter,"  she  answered  him  proudly. 
"It  is  the  other  that  matters." 

"Wade,  again!  I  can't  see  that  it  matters  so  much, 
even  to  him.  How  was  I  to  guess  that  it  would  hurt  a 
simple-minded  old  dreamer  of  that  sort?" 

"  Have  you  been  to  see  him  since?  " 

"No." 

"Why  not?" 

The  direct  query  had  the  stunning  force  of  accusation. 
"You're  right,"  he  said  dully.  "I  knew  all  the  time  it 
was  a  rotten  thing  to  do,  only  I  would  n't  face  it.  And 
I  Ve  kept  away  from  the  Boot  &  Shoe  Infirmary  be 
cause  I  was  afraid  to  go  there.  It's  curious,"  he  added, 
in  a  flat,  detached  manner  of  speech,  "how  the  little 
things  of  life  —  the  things  you  think  are  little  —  wreck 
the  whole  business  for  you,  when  it's  too  late  to  do  any 
thing." 

"Jem!"  gasped  the  girl.  "I  cannot  bear  to  hear  you 
talk  so.  It  — '  it  is  unlike  you.  It  hurts  me." 

"I  don't  want  to  hurt  you,  dear,  Heaven  knows.  I 
only  want  to  get  this  clear.  You  —  you  think  I  'm  unfit 
to  be  —  that  I  'm  untrustworthy.  Is  that  it?" 

"Am  I  being  very  cruel?"  she  whispered. 

"You've  answered.  It's  the  truth  that's  cruel,  not 
you." 

"I  must  trust.  Absolutely.  Or  —  there  is  nothing." 

"I  see.  When  do  you  go?" 

Of  a  sudden  her  strong  young  arms  were  about  his 
shoulders;  her  hot,  sweet  face  was  pressed  against  his. 
He  felt  the  quick  throbbing  of  the  vein  in  her  temple,  and 
was  shaken  to  the  foundations  of  his  being  with  the  dear 
and  bewildering  shock  of  it. 


88  COMMON  CAUSE 

"Oh,  Jem!"  Her  whisper  fluttered  close  to  his  ear. 
"Why  do  you  let  me  go!  Never  let  me  go.  It  breaks  my 
heart  to  go.  To  leave  you.  Never  to  see  you  again.  Why 
must  I  go!" 

"You  must  n't.  You  shan't.  Marcia,  darling!  After 
this  you  can't  leave  me." 

He  lifted  her  head  to  press  his  lips  upon  her  eyes.  They 
were  hot  and  dry.  But  when  he  sought  her  mouth,  her 
quick  hand  interposed.  As  abruptly  as  she  had  come  into 
his  arms  she  escaped  their  jealous  clasp  and  stood  back 
from  him. 

"How  could  I!"  she  panted.  "It  was  unfair  of  me.  I 
never  meant  it." 

"You  can't  tell  me  that  —  now,"  he  answered,  with  a 
new  note  of  joy  and  triumph. 

"It  was  wrong  —  so  wrong,"  she  mourned.  "It  did 
not  mean  what  —  what  you  hoped.  For  I  must  go." 

"Go?"  he  repeated  incredulously.  "And  not  come 
back?" 

"Oh,  want  me  to  come  back,  Jem!."  she  pleaded. 
"  Keep  wanting  me  to  come  back.  If  anything  could  ever 
bring  me,  that  would.  But  it  will  not.  Nothing  can.  I 
know  it.  I  am  holding  to  a  dream." 

"I've  lost  mine,"  said  Jem.  "And  everything  in  life 
with  it  —  if  you  go,  now." 

"Forgive  me.  And  believe  that  I  never  meant  to  hurt 
you.  If  I  have,  it  was  my  ignorance." 

"Ignorance?  You?  I  wish  I  could  see  your  face  now, 
to  see  how  wise  it  is! " 

"You  are  smiling  at  me  again,"  she  said.  "But  I  am 
not  wise.  I  am  very  foolish.  And  I  am  very  young.  Jem, 
do  you  know  how  old  I  am? " 


COMMON  CAUSE  89 

"Sometimes  I've  thought  you  must  be  at  least  a  hun 
dred." 

"I  am  not  eighteen  yet,  Jem.  Indeed,  I  am  not.  I  once 
told  you  that  I  was  old,  as  a  child.  So  you  must  forgive 
me  and  believe  me." 

"I '11  do  anything  but  give  you  up." 

"That,  too,"  she  said  very  low.  She  set  her  hand  trust 
fully  within  his  arm.  "Come.  You  must  take  me  home." 

It  was  a  silent  walk;  the  girl  full  of  musings;  the  man  of 
a  grim,  dogged  determination.  At  the  rose-bowered  steps 
he  took  her  hand. 

"To-morrow,"  he  said.  'Til  be  here  directly  I  finish 
my  work.  No;  I  've  got  one  errand  I  must  do  first." 

"What  is  that?"  she  asked  wanly. 

"  I  'm  going  to  see  Eli  Wade." 

"Yes.   I  am  glad,"  said  she. 

He  stopped  for  a  moment  at  the  gate,  hoping  for 
another  sight  of  her.  She  had  turned  up  the  hall  light 
and  now  stood  in  the  doorway,  beneath  the  roses.  Her 
face  was  inexpressibly  wistful,  inexpressibly  lovely,  inex 
pressibly  lonely.  The  subtle  and  changeful  eyes  stared 
widely  into  the  darkness.  Suddenly  she  threw  her  arm 
across  them  with  a  desolate,  renunciatory  gesture  and 
turned  away. 

The  shoes  which  Eli  WTade  had  repaired  for  Jeremy 
Robson  were  leaden-soled  to  carry  home  a  leaden  and 
foreboding  heart,  that  night. 

With  the  new  day  came  new  courage  to  the  lover. 
Marcia  cared  for  him,  by  her  own  tacit  confession.  After 
all,  his  fault  had  been  a  minor  one;  there  was  sound  de 
fense  for  it:  he  could  convince  her  of  that,  and  overbear 


90  COMMON  CAUSE 

her  intention  of  leaving  him.  What  he  failed  to  perceive 
was  this:  that  the  girl  was  concerned,  not  with  a  fault, 
but  with  a  flaw  of  character  divined  by  her  subtle  and 
powerful  intuition.  But  a  world  without  Marcia  Ames 
was  unthinkable  to  young  Jeremy  Robson,  considering 
the  prospect  calmly  in  the  light  of  day;  and  being  un 
thinkable,  there  remained  only  to  devise  the  best  means  of 
combating  her  illogical  and  even  —  he  would  go  thus 
far  —  unfair  judgment  of  himself.  Growing  more  as 
sured  and  comfortable  in  his  mind,  as  the  day  wore  on,  he 
contrived  to  finish  up  his  work  early,  and  left  the  office 
at  a  jubilant  skip,  intent  on  getting  to  Montgomery 
Street  with  the  least  possible  delay.  He  was  n't  even  go 
ing  by  way  of  the  Boot  &  Shoe  Infirmary.  Eli  Wade  could 
wait. 

On  the  sidewalk  he  was  accosted  by  young  Burton 
Higman,  who  glanced  sidelong  at  him  out  of  ashamed- 
looking,  swollen  eyes. 

"Cut  it  short,  Buddy,"  said  the  hasting  Jem. 

"She's  gone,"  said  the  small  boy. 

Jem  stopped  dead  in  his  tracks.  "Who's  gone?" 

"Miss  Marcy." 

"Where?  When?"  demanded  Jem  wildly. 

"Chicago.  Three- thirty-seven,"  returned  the  precise 
Buddy. 

A  pall  of  dimness  settled  down  over  the  glaring  street; 
hot,  stark,  sterile  dimness  through  which  the  figures  of 
trivial  folk  moved  lifelessly  on  futile  errands. 

"Did  she  leave  any  message?"  inquired  Jem,  pres 
ently,  in  a  voice  which  would  have  been  life-like  from  a 
phonograph. 

"Told  me  to  tell  you." 


COMMON  CAUSE  9r 

"Why  did  she  go  —  so  soon?  "  The  query  was  put,  not 
to  young  Mr.  Higman  but  to  a  blind  and  juggernaut 
providence. 

It  was  young  Mr.  Higman,  however,  who  responded. 
"Afraid,"  he  stated. 

"Afraid?  What  of?" 

"Herself.  She  told  me  so  when  she  k-k-kissed  me  good 
bye."  Buddy's  eyes  winked  rapidly.  "  But  she  did  n't 
tell  me  to  tell  you  that,"  he  reflected. 

"Did  she  give  you  any  other  message?" 

"Not  exac'ly  a  message." 

"Go  on!  Out  with  it." 

"You  need  n't  bite  a  feller,"  expostulated  young  Mr. 
Higman.  "She  told  me  if  ever  you  got  what  you  was 
after,  to  go  to  you  an'  ast  for  a  job,  when  I  needed  it,  for 
the  sake  of  a  mut —  mut —  some  kind  of  friend." 

Jem  registered  a  silent  and  pious  vow.   "Is  that  all?" 

"Yes.  Do  I  get  the  job?" 

"  If  I  can  give  it  to  you." 

"Say,  Mr.  Robson.  I  guess  she  meant  you  was  that 
kind  of  friend.  Are  you  a  friend  of  hern?  " 

Jem  got  it  out  at  last:  "Yes." 

Young  Mr.  Higman's  eyes  became  suddenly  more 
strained  and  ashamed-looking.  "I'm  goin'  to  miss  her 
somethin'  awful,  Mr.  Robson,"  he  said.  "Ain't  you?  " 

But  Mr.  Robson  had  passed  on.  Buddy  wondered 
whether  he  had  suffered  a  touch  of  the  sun.  He  seemed 
uncertain  in  his  walk. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IN  the  course  of  a  long  and  varied  life,  Miss  Editha 
Greer  had  been  consistently  eccentric.   In  the  close  of 
it  she  was  not  less  so.  Witness  the  following  telegram  re 
ceived  by  her  great-nephew,  Jeremy  Robson: 

Philadelphia,  July  30,  1912 
I  am  dead.  Do  not  come  to  funeral.   Letter  follows. 

E.  GREEK. 

To  say  that  the  recipient  of  this  posthumous  message 
was  overcome  with  grief,  would  be  excessive.  His  feeling 
for  his  aged  relative  had  been  one  of  mild  and  remote 
piety,  relieved  by  an  intermittent  sense  of  amusement, 
and  impregnated  with  a  vague  dread  of  what  she  might  do 
next.  No  more  next  now  for  E.  Greer.  Jeremy  was  hon 
estly  sorry;  not  on  his  own  account,  but  for  the  old  lady 
herself.  She  had  so  enjoyed  life!  Doubtless  she  had  re 
linquished  it  with  courage;  but,  also,  he  felt  certain,  with 
profound  dissent  from  the  verdict.  But,  having  duly  dis 
missed  him  from  consideration  in  her  lifetime,  what 
should  she  be  writing  him  about  now  that  she  was  dead? 

Like  the  telegram,  the  letter,  when  it  arrived,  proved 
to  be  an  anticipatory  document.  It  dealt,  in  a  frank  and 
unflattering  style,  with  Jeremy's  expectations  upon  her 
property  which,  she  observed  characteristically,  was  much 
less  than  most  fools  supposed. 

I  have  long  considered  you  a  bit  of  a  ninny  [continued  this 
pleasing  document].  Nor  have  I  valid  cause  to  alter  my  opinion. 
But  I  recently  met  at  a  country  house  a  young  woman  who  knows 


COMMON  CAUSE  93 

you.  [Jeremy's  heart  performed  a  porpoise-roll  within  his  breast.] 
She  tells  me  that  I  am  an  old  fool.  I  interpret  her  expression  and 
bearing,  not  her  words,  which  are  that  I  do  not  understand  you. 
Apparently  she  believes  that  she  does.  If  I  left  you  all  my  money, 
she  would  perhaps  marry  you  for  it.  On  the  whole,  however,  I  be 
lieve  not.  She  has  neglected  much  more  brilliant  opportunities 
here.  Moreover,  when  I  put  the  question  to  her,  she  said  not. 
She  added  that  I  was  impertinent,  and  that  impertinence  was  no 
more  tolerable  from  the  old  to  the  young  than  from  the  young  to 
the  old.  I  like  your  Miss  Marcia  Ames. 

The  point  of  importance  is  that  she  considers  the  modest,  in 
fact  I  may  say  nominal  and  complimentary,  sum  set  apart  for  you 
in  my  will,  quite  insufficient.  We  discussed  it  at  length.  She  is 
possessed  of  a  devil  of  frankness.  She  maintains  that  I  should 
leave  you  a  modest  competency.  She  thinks  that  it  might  save 
your  immortal  soul,  if  I  correctly  interpret  her  attitude.  She 
thinks  your  immortal  soul  is  worth  saving.  She  assumes  that  you 
have  an  immortal  soul.  She  even  appeared  to  think  that  I  have 
an  immortal  soul.  Upon  that  moot  point  I  shall  be  better  able 
to  judge  by  the  time  this  letter  goes  forward  to  you;  but  it  is  im 
probable  that  I  shall  communicate  any  further  or  more  authorita 
tive  information. 

She  is  a  strange  creature.  You  should  have  married  her,  though 
she  is  far  too  old  for  you.  A  hundred  years  at  least.  I  judge  you 
might  have  married  her  but  lost  your  chance.  [Here  the  reader 
groaned.]  She  might  have  made  a  success  of  you.  I  gravely 
doubt  whether  my  money  can. 

Do  not  hastily  assume  that  the  money  is  within  your  grasp. 
There  is  a  condition  to  be  fulfilled.  I  believe  that  you  will  not  ful 
fill  it.  She  believes  that  you  will,  even  though  she  does  not  know 
what  it  is.  Nor  shall  you.  Whether  you  receive  a  small  pittance 
or  a  roundly  comfortable  sum,  depends  now  entirely  upon  your 
self.  I  am  still  malicious  enough  —  I  forget  that  I  am  now,  as  you 
read  this,  dead  and  safely  buried  —  I  was  still  malicious  enough 
to  wish  that  I  might  see  your  struggles  of  mind  upon  receiving 
this,  the  last  communication  wherewith  you  will  ever  be  troubled 
from 

Your  dutiful  great-aunt, 

E.  GREEK. 


94  COMMON  CAUSE 

Perturbation  over  the  prospect  of  comparative  enrich 
ment  was  quite  subordinated,  as  Jeremy  read  this  curi 
ous  epistle,  to  the  turbulence  of  emotion  excited  by  the 
knowledge  that  Marcia  had  been  interesting  herself  so 
intimately  in  his  affairs.  So  far,  the  joke  turned  against 
Great- Aunt  Greer.  But  she  was  more  than  avenged  by 
the  sting  in  her  surmise  that  Jem  had  forfeited  his  chance 
with  Marcia.  Where  was  Marcia?  If  he  got  the  money, 
or  the  assurance  of  it,  why  should  he  not  set  out  to  find 
her,  even  though  it  took  him  across  the  world,  and  try 
once  more?  Would  she  have  the  force  to  escape  from  him 
again  ?  Was  not  her  flight  the  initial  confession,  upon  which 
her  queer  relations  with  E.  Greer  set  the  seal?  Only  as 
an  afterthought  came  the  consideration  of  the  condition 
upon  which  he  was  to  secure  the  larger  legacy.  He  could 
not  seem  to  get  excited  or  disturbed  over  it.  Nothing 
mattered  much  in  the  bleak  soul  of  Jeremy  Robson  but 
Marcia  Ames.  Great-Aunt  Greer  would  have  been  sorely 
disgusted !  Or,  perhaps  she  would  n't. 

Three  days  thereafter  a  caller  came  to  see  Jeremy  at 
The  Record  office.  His  card  indicated  that  he  was  Mr. 
Arthur  Wei  ton,  representing  the  firm  of  Hunt  &  Hunt, 
Attorneys,  Philadelphia.  His  appearance  indicated  that 
he  was  about  Jeremy's  age.  His  bearing  indicated  that 
he  was  older  than  Pharaoh's  uncle,  and  charged  with 
world-destinies.  Jeremy  had  a  shrewd  guess  that  this 
was  his  first  mission  away  from  home. 

Mr.  Welton  looked  Jeremy  over  minutely  and  shook 
hands.  The  firm  of  Hunt  &  Hunt,  which  he  had  the  honor 
to  represent,  had  charge  of  the  affairs  of  Miss  Editha 
Greer,  deceased,  he  informed  Mr.  Robson.  Would  Mr. 
Robson  kindly  put  on  his  coat? 


COMMON  CAUSE  95 

"Do  you  want  me  to  go  out  with  you?"  asked  Jer 
emy. 

"As  you  prefer." 

"What's  the  matter  with  this?  Nobody  will  interrupt 
us  here." 

"Very  well."  The  age-old  youth  wrapped  himself  in  an 
air  of  superior  expectancy. 

"Go  ahead,"  said  the  reporter. 

"The  coat,"  reminded  Mr.  Welton. 

Jeremy  was  annoyed.  "Why  the  devil  should  I  put  on 
a  coat  with  the  mercury  ramping  around  90?" 

"A  mere  formality,"  murmured  his  visitor. 

"Oh,  very  well!"  growled  Jeremy.  He  departed  and 
presently  returned,  fully  and  uncomfortably  garmented. 

Again  Mr.  Arthur  Welton  inspected  him  carefully. 
"You  do  not  wear  mourning,  I  observe." 

"I  do  not." 

"Why  not,  may  I  ask?" 

"Don't  believe  in  it.  It's  a  pagan  custom  and  usually 
hypocritical." 

"I  cannot  agree  with  you,"  retorted  the  other  weight 
ily.  "On  principle,  I  cannot  agree  with  you.  In  the  pres 
ent  instance,  would  it  be  an  evidence  of  hypocrisy  to  have 
shown  a  formal  mark  of  sorrow  for  the  loss  of  your  great- 
aunt?" 

•'  It  would." 

"You  felt,  then,  no  affection  or  esteem  for  the  late 
MissEdithaGreer?" 

"What  business  is  that  of  yours?" 

"It  is  so  much  the  business  of  my  firm  that  I  have 
traveled  a  thousand  miles  to  ascertain  your  attitude." 

"The  condition!"  cried  Jeremy,  aloud.   "I  beg  your 


96  COMMON  CAUSE 

pardon,"  he  added.  "If  you  had  told  me  that  this  was  a 
legal  cross-examination — " 

"Not  precisely  that,  Mr.  Robson.  I  should  have 
thought  that  you  would  appreciate  its  purport,"  returned 
the  other  in  a  tone  of  grave  rebuke. 

"I  do."  There  was  a  grim  set  to  the  other's  lips.  "I 
know  Aunt  Edie  well  enough  to  appreciate  her  practical 
jokes." 

"Really,  Mr.  Robson!  I  am  bound  to  protest  against 
the  assumption  that  our  late  client  — " 

"All  right!  All  right!  I  withdraw  it.  Fire  ahead." 

Mr.  Arthur  Weston  looked  delicately  but  impressively 
pained.  "You  felt  no  affection  or  esteem  for  the  de 
ceased?"  he  inquired  through  pursed  lips. 

"I  liked  the  old  lady,  in  a  way,"  confessed  Jeremy 
reminiscently.  "She  had  such  a  cheery  spice  of  the  devil 
in  her.  And  her  tongue!  And  her  pen!  Oh,  Lord!  What 
an  editorial  writer  she'd  have  made,  if  she  could  have 
kept  out  of  jail." 

"I  need  hardly  tell  you,  Mr.  Robson,  that  she  gravely 
disapproved  of  your  journalistic  predilections." 

"Nobody  need  tell  me  after  she  got  through.  Nobody 
need  tell  anybody  anything  that  my  Great-Aunt  Greer 
had  told  'em  first." 

"  In  order  that  the  record  may  be  clear,  let  me  put  this 
to  you.  It  is  admitted  that  you  disapprove  of  symbolical 
mourning;  that  you  do  not  practice  it.  If  you  did  prac 
tice  it,  would  you  have  worn  mourning  for  the  deceased 
Miss  Greer?" 

"If  the  dog  hadn't  stopped  to  scratch  the  flea  would 
he  have  caught  the  rabbit?"  retorted  the  irreverent  Mr. 
Robson. 


COMMON  CAUSE  97 

"I  must  insist  upon  a  reply." 

"No;  I  certainly  shouldn't.  Why  should  I?  I'm  not 
grieving  over  Aunt  Edie's  death.  She 's  no  real  loss  to  me. 
Nor  gain,  either,  now,"  he  added  with  a  rueful  grin.  "  I  'm 
not  going  to  pretend.  So,  you  see,  there's  not  even  a  miti 
gating  circumstance." 

"Mitigating  circ — " 

"Good  legal  phrase,  is  n't  it?  Oh,  I  understand  your 
errand  perfectly.  Aunt  Edie  wrote  me  that  there  was  a 
'  condition '  to  the  legacy  that  I  would  n't  fulfill.  If  you  'd 
come  out  here  and  found  me  all  swathed  up  in  black  like  a 
mummy,  and  with  a  funereal  gulp  in  my  voice  when  I 
spoke  of  my  dear  old  Auntie,  and  the  general  manners  of 
an  undertaker  right  on  the  job,  I  expect  it  might  have 
been  worth  twenty  or  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  to  me. 
Even  a  mourning  band  on  my  coat  and  a  few  appropriate 
sighs  in  the  right  place  might  have  got  me  five  or  ten 
thousand.  Maybe  if  I  'd  stopped  to  figure  it  out,  I  'd  have 
dressed  the  part.  A  fellow  will  do  a  good  deal  for  money. 
Then  again,  maybe  I  would  n't."  The  memory  of  Mar- 
cia's  frank  and  lustrous  eyes  checked  him.  Could  he  have 
met  their  challenge,  with  the  black  badge  of  hypocrisy  on 
him?  "No!  I'm  damned  if  I  would!"  he  declared  with 
profound  sincerity.  "So  there  you  have  it.  I  know  where 
I  get  off,  and  I  don't  much  care,  to  tell  the  truth.  I 
lose." 

The  overweighted  legal  victim  of  responsibilities  al 
most  too  heavy  to  be  borne,  slowly  and  accurately  gath 
ered  up  his  hat,  his  gloves,  his  cane,  his  portfolio,  and  his 
eye-glasses  in  the  absorbed  manner  of  one  taking  an  in 
ventory.  He  bowed  a  solemn  and  professional  farewell 
to  Mr.  Robson.  At  the  door  he  paused.  A  gleam  as  of 


98  COMMON  CAUSE 

some  faint,  inward  flickering  of  the  eternal  human  which 
must  at  times  assert  itself  even  through  the  cerements 
of  legal  procedure,  appeared  upon  his  pink  and  careworn 
features. 

"No,"  he  pronounced  profoundly.  "You  win." 


CHAPTER  IX 

WHAT'S  the  matter  with  you,  Robson?" 
Young  Jeremy  Robson  turned  a  lack-luster  eye 
upon  Wackley,  his  managing  editor.   "  No  thing,"  he  said 
listlessly. 

"You're  not  looking  well." 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  said  the  reporter,  dully  wishing  his 
solicitous  superior  at  the  devil. 

"Want  a  few  days  off  to  go  fishin'?" 

"No,  thanks." 

"What  do  you  want?"  inquired  Wackley,  dreading  to 
hear  that  a  raise  of  pay  was  the  requisite.  Cheered  by  the 
valuable  reporter's  negative  declaration  of  content  with 
his  lot  as  it  was,  the  editor  continued:  "A  sick  owl  is  a 
merry  wag  to  what  you  Ve  been  for  the  last  ten  days.  All 
the  ginger  has  gone  out  of  your  stuff.  Can't  you  dig  us  up 
something  more  as  good  as  your  Eli  Wade  story?" 

In  that  moment  Jeremy  Robson  savored  the  sensations 
of  the  chicken-killing  puppy  when,  awaking  from  bless 
edly  forgetful  reverie,  it  finds  the  dismal  and  penal  relic 
of  its  crime  still  fast  about  its  neck. 

".Look  here,"  pursued  Wackley.  "This  is  n't  going  to 
do.  You  quit  for  the  day,  and  go  home.  To-morrow 
there 's  going  to  be  doings  in  the  Senate.  Martin  Embree 
is  going  to  spring  something.  You  cover  it.  We  '11  want  a 
good  story,  if  the  stuff  comes  through.  Beat  it  for  home, 
now!" 

Home?  Young  Jeremy  Robson  felt  a  loathly  distaste 
for  his  quiet  room  up  off  the  campus.  But  so  he  felt  a 


ioo  COMMON  CAUSE 

loathly  distaste  for  the  whole  of  that  hollow  and  lifeless 
shell  about  him,  which  had  so  lately  been  the  world  of  his 
crowded,  vigorous  interests.  Man  delighted  him  not;  no, 
nor  woman,  either;  not  even  the  pride  of  his  work  and 
his  satisfaction  in  having  become  something  of  a  figure, 
though  in  a  minor  degree,  locally.  He  hungered,  with 
the  intensity  of  a  self-willed  and  rather  lonely  nature,  for 
the  sight  and  sound  and  essence  of  Marcia  Ames  who  was 
some  weeks  and  Heaven  only  knew  how  many  miles  away 
from  him.  Young  Jeremy  Robson  had  suffered  as  severe  a 
hurt  as  youth  can  suffer  and  still  continue  to  be  youth. 

He  wandered  idly  up  the  Nicklin  Avenue  hill  and 
turned  into  the  shaded  sweetness  of  Montgomery  Street. 
Miss  Letitia  Pritchard  was  at  her  hedge-row,  cutting 
roses.  She  was  a  placid  and  vigorous  mite  of  a  woman, 
unfaded  at  fifty,  sweet  and  hardy  and  fresh-hued  and 
rugged  like  a  late,  frost-resisting  apple. 

"How  hot  and  tired  you  look!''  was  her  greeting  across 
the  barrier  of  bloom  and  fragrance.  "Come  in  and  I'll 
give  you  some  iced  ginger-and-lemon."  She  led  the  way 
to  a  dwarfish  table  in  a  fairy  grotto  of  rocks  and  climbing 
flowers.  "Are  you  never  coming  to  see  me  any  more?" 

"I  did  n't  know  you'd  care  to  have  me,"  he  replied, 
exactly  like  a  forlorn  small  boy. 

"Your  rival,  Buddy  Higman,  comes  every  day.  Though 
that 's  partly  business.  But  he  always  starts  in  by  asking, 
*  Heard  from  Her,  again,  Miss  Letty?'" 

Her  visitor  gave  her  a  grateful  look.  "What  do  you 
hear,  Miss  Pritchard?" 

"My  young  and  dangerous  cousin  is  dashing  about 
New  York  at  a  great  rate,"  she  informed  him,  "enjoying 
life  to  the  utmost." 


COMMON  CAUSE  ici 

"Then  she  has  n't  sailed  yet." 

"She  sails  in  a  fortnight." 

"Does  she  say  anything  about  coming  back?" 

The  rosy  spinster  shook  her  head.  "Not  a  word.  But 
then,  Marcia  does  n't  say  things.  She  does  'em." 

"Do  you  think  she  will  come  back  —  some  time?" 

"  Probably  not.  I  think  she  will  —  well,  do  what  is  best 
for  her.  Without  being  at  all  a  selfish  person,  Marcia  has 
a  singular  instinct  for  doing  what  is  best  for  herself.  In 
the  real  sense,  I  mean." 

Undoubtedly!  reflected  young  Mr.  Jeremy  Robson. 
She  had  done  the  best  thing  for  herself  in  judging  him  and 
finding  him  lacking.  Acceptance  of  which  fact  gave  to 
his  face  an  expression  which  caused  Miss  Pritchard  to 
look  the  other  way.  Presently  she  went  to  a  shelf  in  the 
nook  and  brought  out  an  envelope  which  she  placed  in  her 
caller's  hand. 
|  "Are  n't  they  good!"  said  she. 

He  smoothed  out  the  curving  paper,  and  Marcia 's  own 
face  smiled  forth  its  quaint  and  inscrutable  witchery  at 
him. 

"I  took  it  the  day  before  she  went  away.  There's  one 
to  spare,"  she  suggested. 

"Do  you  think  she'd  want  me  to  have  it?"  he  asked, 
his  hungry  gaze  set  upon  the  little  print. 

"You're  a  nice  boy,"  said  Miss  Letitia  Pritchard. 
("And  all  the  nicer,"  she  thought  to  herself,  "for  being  so 
much  a  boy.")  "Yes;  she'd  be  glad  to  have  you  have  it, 
I  think." 

"She  did  n't  say  so?" 

Sympathy  for  the  eagerness  of  his  tone  softened  the 
old  maid's  smile.  "No.  She  did  n't  say  so.  She  did  n't 


102  COMMON  CAUSE 

say  anything  about  you,  except  that  you'd  come  to  see 
me.  For  a  time  I  thought  her  prophecy  was  wrong." 

"I'd  like  to  come  again." 

"As  often  as  you  like,"  she  said  kindly.  "  You  're  one  of 
three  people  she  talked  to  me  about,  the  night  before  she 
left.  The  others  were  Buddy  —  she  is  going  to  help  him 
get  an  education  when  the  time  comes  —  and  Eli  Wade." 

From  day  to  day  Jeremy  had  postponed  the  dreaded 
confessional  visit  to  the  Boot  &  Shoe  Surgeon.  "You've 
reminded  me  of  an  errand,  Miss  Pritchard,"  he  said. 

Bidding  her  good-bye,  he  went  direct  to  the  Infirmary. 
The  old  practitioner  sat  hunched  over  a  pair  of  white 
buckskins.  He  lifted  a  mild,  but  questioning  face  to 
Jeremy. 

"Come  in,  Mr.  Robson,"  said  he.  "It's  quite  some 
time  sence  you  was  here." 

"I  was  ashamed  to  come,"  blurted  Jeremy. 

"Shucks!  Don't  say  that.  You  can't  be  responsible 
for  what  they  order  you  to  write.  That's  a  reporter's 
job." 

"Who  says  so?" 

"Nick  Milliken.  He  says  any  reporter 'd  have  to  do 
the  same." 

This  was  a  bitter  flavoring  to  the  dose.  "That  is  n't 
so,"  replied  Jeremy  quietly.  "I  need  n't  have  written  it; 
not  that  way.  I  need  n't  have  written  it  at  all." 

The  Boot  &  Shoe  Surgeon  set  down  the  subject  upon 
which  he  was  operating.  "I  don't  understand,"  he  said, 
puzzled  and  despondent.  "Did  you  want  to  do  it?" 

"That  is  n't  the  question.  I  did  n't  have  to  do  it.  If 
necessary  I  could  have  resigned." 

The  old  man's  face  cleared  up.  "Quit  your  job?  That  'd 


COMMON  CAUSE  103 

'a '  been  foolish.  There  was  n't  any  call  for  you  to  do 
that." 

" Anyhow  I'm  mighty  sorry  I  ever  touched  the  story. 
And  if  I'd  known  what  it  was  going  to  do  to  you"  — 
The  old  man  flinched  involuntarily  at  this  reference  to 
the  dead  glories  of  his  School  Board  incumbency — • 
"  I  'd  never  have  touched  it  in  the  world." 

"Sure  you  would!  You'd  do  it  again.  To-morrow  if 
the  orders  came." 

Jem  whirled  to  meet  the  malevolent  smile  of  Nicholas 
Milliken,  the  Socialist,  standing  in  the  doorway. 

"I  told  you  not  to  blame  this  young  feller,"  the  new 
comer  bade  Eli  Wade.  "He  can't  help  it.  He's  only  a 
louse-souled  ratchet  in  the  machinery  of  the  capitalistic 
press."  Obviously  much  pleased  with  this  rich  metaphor, 
Mr.  Milliken  entered  and  seated  himself. 

"Well,  I  knew  he  wouldn't  do  it  to  me  a-purpose," 
said  Eli  Wade. 

Jeremy  Robson  felt  sick;  too  sick  even  to  be  incensed  at 
Milliken  who  proceeded: 

11  Did  n't  even  know  the  little  game  they  were  playing, 
did  you,  young  feller?  Well,  you  see,  Eli,  here,  he's  a 
radical  as  far  as  his  intelligence  will  carry  him.  That's 
my  influence  on  him.  The  bosses  don't  want  radicals  on 
the  School  Board.  They  don't  want  'em  any  where.  Any 
how  the  Schools  belong  to  the  Germans :  that 's  their  spe 
cialty.  So,  Eli  being  against  the  cultural-extension-of- 
German  plan,  they  stir  up  the  Germans  against  him,  and 
then  sick  the  newspapers  onto  him,  and  when  they  sick, 
you  do  the  yapping.  That 's  all  there  is  to  that.  Except 
that  Smiling  Mart,  the  damned  hypocrite,  steps  up  and 
eases  Eli  out  to  help  put  in  another  German  and  clinch 


104  COMMON  CAUSE 

his  hold  on  a  few  more  German  votes.  Not  that  it  ain't 
all  right,  at  that;  if  they'll  put  in  a  good  radical.  The 
cultural  extension 's  good  enough,  like  anything  else  that  '11 
help  people  think.  Oh,  these  fools !  They  can't  see  edu 
cation  is  what's  going  to  dish  'em  all  and  bring  on  the 
Social  Revolution." 

!  "Don't  you  talk  against  Martin  Embree,  Nick,"  ad 
monished  the  proprietor.  "There  ain't  a  straighter  set 
pair  o'  feet  in  the  State  of  Centralia." 

"All  right.  Then  I'm  a  goat;  look  at  my  hoofs!" 
grinned  the  Socialist.  "But  be  patient  with  our  helpless 
young  hired-man  writer  here." 

Jeremy  liked  Milliken's  contemptuous  excusals  less 
than  Wade's  blame,  and  said  so. 

"Oh,  you  ain't  reached  the  bottom  of  your  ditch  yet," 
jeered  the  Socialist.    "How's  the  editorial  end?    Still 
writing  'em?" 
i    "Yes,"  said  Jeremy  shortly. 

"Pot  of  ink;  pot  o'  glue;  pot  o'  soft  soap  and  a  pair  of 
blinders :  there 's  your  editorial-writer's  outfit.  Done  any 
slush-bucketing  for  Montrose  Clark  yet?" 

"No." 

"Say  it  as  though  you  did  n't  expect  to.  But  you 'will. 
Oh,  yes;  you'll  come  to  it." 

"Let  him  be,  Nick,"  said  the  gentle  old  philosopher  of 
foot-garb. 

"Did  he  let  you  be?  Let  him  listen.  One  day  old  Judge 
Slippery  Selden  Dana  will  come  puttering  into  The  Rec 
ord  office— " 

"On  the  ball  of  his  sole,"  put  in  the  Boot  &  Shoe  Sur 
geon. 

"Pussyfooting.  Of  course.  He '11  suggest  to  Mr.  Farley 


COMMON  CAUSE  105 

that  some  recognition  of  Mr.  Montrose  Clark's  eminent 
services  as  a  citizen  would  be  timely.  Know  what  that 
means?  Means  that  Puffy  Clark  and  the  P.-U.  Co.  are 
getting  ready  to  grab  another  franchise.  Does  Mr.  Far 
ley  see  it  that  way?  He  does!  He  remembers  a  little  slice 
of  P.-U.  stock  in  the  strong-box.  And  if  Young  Feller, 
here,  is  good  enough  with  his  pen,  he  wins  the  job  of  puff 
ery  for  the  puniest  little  public-utility-grafting  puff-adder 
that  ever  stung  a  city.  And  will  he  see  it  that  way?  He 
will.  He'll  remember  his  little  pay  envelope  at  the  end 
of  the  week,  and  he'll  come  through.  It's  a  grand  little 
system." 

"Nothing  wrong  with  a  system  that  lets  a  man  get 
from  his  employees  what  he  pays  for,"  defended  Jeremy. 

"Nothing  wrong  with  your  cutting  Eli  Wade's  throat 
to  order,  either.  Eh?  " 

To  this  Jeremy  found  no  reply. 

"Remember  that  apology  I  was  going  to  make  on  de 
mand?  Do  I  hear  any  demand?  I  guess  the  apology's 
the  other  way  around." 

"I've  made  it.  Not  to  you,  though.  I'm  going  on. 
Eli !  Once  more  I  'm  sorry  and  I  'm  ashamed." 

"Until  next  time,"  added  the  irrepressible  malice  of 
the  white-haired  Socialist. 

Not  trusting  himself  to  reply,  the  reporter  walked  out. 
Within  a  few  strides  Milliken  was  at  his  side. 

"He's  bad  hurt,  the  old  boy,"  he  confided  in  a  wholly 
altered  and  wholly  sincere  tone. 

"  I'm  sorry  — " 

"Oh,  your  story  is  only  part  of  it.  Clever!  Vur-ree 
clever.  But  they'd  have  got  his  place  on  the  Board  any 
way.  They  needed  it." 


io6  COMMON  CAUSE 

" What  can  I  do?" 

"Nothing.  Unless,"  added  the  other  on  reflection, 
"you  could  slip  something  pleasant  about  him  over 
some  time.  That  'd  please  him.  He 's  like  a  child,  about 
print." 

At  home  Jem  took  out  the  picture  of  Marcia  Ames  and 
studied  it.  Tiny  though  it  was,  it  was  instinct  with  her 
very  poise  and  spiritual  effluence.  As  so  often  with  her 
self,  he  felt  the  something  unsaid  behind  the  serene  self- 
possession  of  the  face;  the  something  vital  for  which  he 
must  grope.  What  was  the  message,  the  demand  which 
the  face  was  making  upon  him,  which  she  was  making 
upon  him  through  this  dear  memento?  Ranging  back,  he 
recalled  in  a  flash  that  first  impression  of  her  in  the  meet 
ing,  while  she  was  still  so  completely  unknown  that  he  had 
mistaken  even  the  fundamental  matter  of  sex;  the  im 
pression  of  an  untouched,  untainted  valorousness.  Again 
he  saw  it,  reflected  from  the  tiny  delicacy  of  the  picture. 
Plain  enough  now  what  she  demanded  of  him. 

It  was  courage. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  Senate  proceedings  did  not  open  until  ten 
o'clock.  Meantime  Montrose  Clark,  President  of 
the  Fenchester  Public  Utilities  Corporation,  and  in  some 
part  godling  of  local  affairs,  had  telephoned  his  com 
mands  to  The  Record  that  a  representative  be  sent  to  his 
office  that  morning  to  take  a  statement  for  the  paper. 
Jeremy,  incautiously  dropping  in  at  the  office  early,  got 
the  job  to  do  before  going  to  the  Capitol.  He  was  ad 
mitted  to  an  outer  office  by  the  hand-perfected  private 
secretary,  cross-questioned  briefly,  and  passed  in  to  the 
Presence. 

Mr.  Montrose  Clark  was  telephoning.  He  was  revealed 
to  Jeremy's  inquiring  eye  as  a  plump,  glossy,  red-faced 
little  man  with  a  fussily  assured  manner,  an  autocratic 
voice  and  a  keen  and  greedy  eye.  Few  indeed  were  the 
local  pies  of  promise  or  flavor  in  which  Mr.  Clark  did  not 
have  a  pudgy  and  profit-taking  finger;  and  his  bearing 
suggested  the  man  comfortably  sure  of  taking  care  of 
himself.  He  snapped  "G'-bye"  into  the  telephone  and 
turned  to  Jeremy. 

"You're  the  rippawtah  from  The  Record?" 
The  accent  of  the  word  stirred  Jeremy's  bile.  He  did 
not  know  that  it  was  merely  a  sub-conscious  stock  trick 
of  Mr.  Clark's;  that  there  were  certain  words,  such  as 
"rippawtah,"  "culchah,"  "legislaychuh,"  and  the  like, 
whereby  he  asserted  his  superiority  of  intellectual  status, 
reverting  to  the  comfortable  speech  of  the  Middle  West 
for  the  communication  of  other  thoughts. 


io8  COMMON  CAUSE 

"I'm  from  The  Record,"  he  said. 

"Take  this."  The  public-utilitarian  began  to  dic 
tate.  .  .  . 

"Got  that?  Be  sure  to  be  accurate.  This  is  important." 

To  the  reporter  it  seemed  neither  important  nor  in 
teresting.  It  was  a  statement  concerning  a  projected 
change,  petty,  administrative,  and  technical,  in  the  con 
duct  of  the  trolley  system.  Had  it  been  of  the  most  vital 
significance,  the  "rippawtah"  would  still  have  grilled  at 
the  impersonal  arrogance  of  the  other's  attitude. 

"Got  that?"  repeated  Mr.  Clark,  after  another  pas 
sage.  "Read  it  over." 

Jeremy  laid  down  his  pencil.  "Don't  you  think  you'd 
better  send  for  one  of  your  stenographers?" 

"What  for?"  demanded  the  other.  "A  rippawtah 
ought  to  be  able  to  take  dictation,  if  he's  competent." 

"A  'rippawtah,'  as  you  call  him,  is  accustomed  to  a 
certain  degree  of  courtesy." 

Mr.  Montrose  Clark  pressed  a  button  and  his  hand- 
perfected  private  secretary  popped  in. 

"Garson!  Call  The  Record.  Tell  Farley  to  instruct  his 
rippawtah  to  follow  directions  and  not  be  insolent." 

Red  to  his  cheek-bones,  Jeremy  tore  up  the  sheet  of 
paper  on  which  he  had  been  writing,  dropped  the  pieces 
upon  the  immaculate  rug  of  the  outraged  Mr.  Montrose 
Clark,  and  marched  out.  Straight  to  The  Record  office  he 
went  and  sought  Wackley. 

"You  can  have  my  job.  I  'm  through." 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  the  astonished  and 
alarmed  managing  editor. 

Jeremy  told  him.  Wackley  laughed.  He  had  no  inten 
tion  of  losing  so  valuable  a  man  as  Robson.  ( 


COMMON  CAUSE  109 

"Between  us,  Montrose  Clark  is  an  ass,"  he  said. 
"Don't  let  him  bother  you.  We'll  keep  you  away  from 
his  jobs  after  this.  Anyway,  we're  going  to  work  you  into 
editorials  and  specials  more,  from  now  on.  Trot  along 
now  to  the  Capitol,  and  keep  your  eye  on  Mart  Embree." 

Anticipation  was  in  the  air  of  the  Senate  Chamber 
when  Jeremy  arrived.  Something  special  was  expected 
from  Senator  Embree.  As  always,  when  he  was  on  the 
programme,  the  galleries  were  full.  There  was  reason 
and  precedent  for  this,  for  the  two  local  newspapers  were 
wont  to  report  the  leader  of  the  Northern  Tier  in  a  cau 
tious,  not  to  say  niggardly  manner.  People  who  wished 
to  savor  the  full  acidity  of  the  young  radical's  utterances, 
would  best  get  seats  for  themselves,  or  be  dependent  upon 
more  provident  friends  for  word-of-mouth  synopsis  of 
the  proceedings,  since  the  unfortunate  instance  of  the 
famous  "Piracy  and  the  P.-U."  speech  on  the  Special 
Condemnation  Bill,  in  which  Senator  Embree  had  held 
up  that  civic  godling,  Mr.  Montrose  Clark,  to  the  scorn 
and  reprehension  of  the  impious  rabble,  and  the  local  press 
had  published  the  whole  matter.  Politicians  had  confi 
dently  declared  that  the  speech  would  terminate  the  pub 
lic  life  of  Smiling  Mart,  who,  by  the  way,  had  smiled  only 
twice  in  the  whole  course  of  his  effort,  once  at  the  begin 
ning  and  again  at  the  end.  Montrose  Clark,  they  said, 
would  be  too  strong  for  him.  It  did  not  so  appear.  When 
the  tumult  and  the  shouting  had  died  and  the  captains  of 
industry  and  the  kings  of  local  politics  had  departed  and 
laid  their  plans  for  the  elimination  of  the  upstart,  it 
transpired  that  the  upstart  had  by  that  one  speech  crys 
tallized  a  somewhat  indefinite  policy  of  progressive  radi 
calism  into  a  compaign  for  the  rescue  of  the  State  from 


i  io  COMMON  CAUSE 

the  control  of  the  financial  and  public  utility  magnates 
who  had  quietly  taken  it  over  from  an  older  and  far  more 
corrupt  purely  political  management.  The  man  in  the 
street  rallied  to  Martin  Embree,  as  well  where  the  street 
was  a  country  town  thoroughfare  as  where  it  was  a  city's 
artery  of  trade,  and  the  farmers  of  the  north  followed  al 
most  in  a  body  and  without  much  respect  to  party.  These  , 
were  unassimilated  Americans;  Scandinavians,  a  few 
Dutch  and  Italians,  but  mostly  Germans.  Martin  Em 
bree  had  the  unbounded  confidence  of  these  elements, 
particularly  the  Germans.  He  had  cultivated  it  assidu 
ously,  and  by  legitimate  political  methods.  In  and  out  of 
season  he  impressed  them  with  their  responsibility  for  the 
cleansing  of  politics,  and  for  reform.  Now,  to  your  Ger 
man-American,  uplifted  in  the  conviction  of  racial  right 
eousness,  reform  is  a  word  sanctified  for  his  own  uses.  Re 
form  means  compelling  other  people  to  think  as  he  thinks. 
Therefore  he  solemnly  adopts  it.  Reform,  to  these  North 
ern  Tier  farmers,  meant  Martin  Embree.  By  this  support 
alone,  if  he  had  enjoyed  no  other,  he  was  too  strong  for 
the  powers  that  were  completely  to  dislodge.  He  was 
clean,  honest,  earnest,  fervent,  laborious,  and  the  posses 
sor  of  a  direct  and  winning  address.  Too  late,  the  "old 
gang  "  perceived  that  he  had  developed  from  a  "cheap 
spellbinder"  into  a  "dangerous  demagogue";  and  largely 
because  they  had  so  ill-advisedly  permitted  such  part  of 
the  press  as  they  controlled,  to  disseminate  that  telling 
speech  of  his.  At  least,  they  would  n't  make  that  mistake 
again !  Martin  Embree  was  now  too  considerable  a  figure 
to  be  ignored  in  print.  But  no  other  man  in  the  public 
life  of  Centralia  was  so  rigorously  "edited." 
To-day,  Jeremy  Robson  foresaw,  his  own  job  would  be 


COMMON  CAUSE  in 

one  of  reporting  orally,  rather  than  writing.  This  acting 
as  political  lookout  he  quite  enjoyed;  it  gave  him  a  flat 
tering  sense  of  being  on  the  inside  of  things.  Then,  too, 
there  was  opportunity  for  finesse.  If  the  speaker  of  the 
day  got  upon  slippery  ground,  Jeremy  would  have  his 
chance  to  trip  him  up  editorially,  perhaps.  He  knew  that 
Embree  would  not  resent  this  in  him.  It  was  part  of  the 
game,  in  which  they  were,  for  the  present,  opponents. 
The  Senator's  good-humor  and  broad-minded  acceptance 
of  the  matter  was  one  of  the  qualities  which  Jeremy  most 
ardently  admired  in  him.  And  politically  he  was  so  right 
and  decent  and  clear  of  vision !  What  would  not  Jeremy 
have  given  for  a  chance  as  political  expert  on  a  paper 
supporting  Embree's  main  policies,  a  progressive  and 
independent  paper  such  as  the  Bellair  Journal,  for  ex 
ample!  Perhaps  that  would  come  in  time;  already  The 
Journal  had  offered  him  a  reporter's  job.  Meanwhile  he 
must,  in  fairness,  be  loyal  to  his  employers.  Embree  him 
self  would  admit  that.  Any  one  would  admit  it,  except 
a  hare-brained  Socialist  like  Milliken.  Jeremy  clung  to 
that  justification  of  loyalty. 

Routine  business  was  still  in  progress  on  the  floor  when 
Galpin  of  The  Guardian  came  in  and  seated  himself  next 
to  Jeremy.  There  was  still  a  patch  over  his  left  eye.  His 
broad  and  bony  face  wore  an  expression  of  concerned  ex 
pectation. 

" What's  Embree  after  this  time?"  Jeremy  whispered 
to  him. 

"Us,"  said  Galpin. 

"Editorial 'we'?  The  Guardian?  How?" 

"  Don't  know.  Can't  pick  up  much.  Martin  don't  ever 
say  much  beforehand.  Pulls  his  gun  and  shoots." 


ii2  COMMON  CAUSE 

"And  Lord  help  the  bull's-eye !" 

"Ay-ah,"  assented  Galpin.  "I  asked  him  this  morning 
what's  what,  and  all  he  said  was,  'Better  get  ready  to 
duck  in  the  Press  Gallery,'  with  that  smile  of  his  that  may 
mean  fun  and  may  mean  murder.  Look!  There's  Slip 
pery  Selden  Dana  on  the  floor." 

"That  means  the  P.-U.  is  in  it." 

"Not  necessarily.  But  it  means  something  out  of  the 
ordinary.  He  is  n't  spending  Montrose  Clark's  time  on 
any  picayune  stuff." 

"You  can't  blame  Embree  if  he  goes  after  the  news 
papers,"  said  The  Record  reflectively. 

"Fool  trick,  though.  They  always  get  in  the  last  wal 
lop." 

"Look  what  a  raw  deal  he  gets,  here  in  Fenchester. 
The  best  he  gets  from  The  Record  is  silent  contempt,  and 
The  Guardian  —  well,  I  don't  know  why  he  has  n't  sued 
The  Guardian  for  libel  long  ago." 

" What 'd  be  the  use?" 

"You  mean  The  Guardian  is  right  in  practically  saying 
he's  a  crook?" 

"No.  I  guess  he's  the  nearest  decent  thing  we've  got 
in  this  rotten  mess  of  politics,"  said  Galpin  with  the  ex 
perienced  political  reporter's  cynical  view  of  public  men, 
"unless  it's  Magnus  Laurens." 

"Then  why  won't  they  give  him  a  fair  shake?  I  don't 
mind  their  going  after  him  editorially.  That 's  opinion. 
But  to  cut  him  out  of  the  news,  that  gets  my  goat  a 
little." 

"Ay-ah?  Well,  you  see,  he's  gumming  our  game." 

"Whatga— " 

"The  whole,  dam',  slick,  polite  graft  that  makes  the 


COMMON  CAUSE  113 

machine  run  so  smooth  and  nice  and  turns  out  the  pretty 
little  dividends  for  the  banks  and  the  railroads  and  the 
big  companies  generally.  Have  n't  you  seen  into  that 
millstone  yet?" 

"You  talk  as  if  you  were  really  on  Embree'i  side." 

"Ay-ah.  Why  not?" 

"  But  The  Guard—  " 

" I'm  a  hired  man,"  said  Galpin  impassively. 

"  If  you  had  a  paper  of  your  own  — " 

"Be  a  hired  man  just  the  same." 

"Who  could  boss  you  then?"  asked  Jeremy  in  surprise. 

"Same  bunch  that  bosses  The  Record  and  The  Guard 
ian." 

"Could  n't  a  paper  be  run  independent  of  them?" 

"Never  has  been  in  this  town." 

"But  could  n't  it?"  persisted  the  other.  "Would  n't  it 
be  fun  to  work  on  a  paper  like  that!" 

"Gee!"  murmured  Galpin.  They  were  like  two  ur 
chins  savoring  a  golden  and  imaginative  treat. 

"Mr.  President." 

The  resonant  tones  of  Martin  Embree's  rich  and  effort 
less  voice  roused  the  reporters  from  their  boyish  vision. 
He  stood  tall,  handsome,  easy,  confident,  but  his  usually 
sunny  face  was  grave,  and  he  held  in  his  hand  a  docu 
ment,  contrary  to  his  custom.  Before  he  had  spoken  five 
minutes  to  the  hushed  attention  of  floor  and  galleries,  it 
became  evident  that  his  talk  was  centering  and  converg 
ing  upon  that  document.  His  subject  was  the  "cheese 
check"  scandal  which  had  roused  the  dairy  fanners  of 
his  region  to  fury.  He  traced  the  steps  whereby  the  com 
mission  men's  combine  had  sought  legislation  which 
would  have  rendered  the  producer  almost  helpless  in 


ii4  COMMON  CAUSE 

their  hands,  touched  upon  alleged  bribery  in  the  lower 
House,  referred  to  the  part  which  two  of  the  Fenchester 
banking  institutions  had  played  ("That's  why  Dana  was 
here;  Montrose  Clark 's  in  the  banking  game  on  the  side," 
whispered  Galpin),  and  continued: 

"For  my  own  conscientious  and  repeated  attempts 
to  block  this  nefarious  deal,  I  have  been  consistently  de 
rided  as  a  silly  reformer  by  one  of  the  local  newspapers, 
and  denounced  by  the  other  in  terms  which,  were  cir 
cumstances  otherwise,  I  should  reply  to  by  a  suit  for 
criminal  libel.  I  am  enabled  to  deal  with  The  Fenchester 
Guardian,  in  a  more  effective,  swifter,  and  more  rele 
vant  manner.  Will  the  clerk  of  the  Senate  kindly  read 
this  letter,  which  fell  into  my  hands  by  a  happy  acci 
dent,  and  the  authenticity  of  which  will  not  be  denied 
by  its  author?" 

The  clerk  of  the  Senate  received  the  document  with  a 
look  of  interest  unusual  in  his  stolid  official  bearing.  He 
began  to  read : 

"  Editor's  Office  of  The  Fenchester  Evening  Guardian : 
Undated.  My  dear  Mr.  Dorlon: — " 

"The  date  is  established  as  of  last  month  by  the  enve 
lope,"  said  Senator  Embree. 

Profiting  by  the  interruption,  the  clerk  ran  his  eye 
swiftly  through  the  one-page  letter;  but,  instead  of  re 
suming  his  reading,  left  his  place  and  carried  it  to  the 
presiding  officer.  Their  heads  bent  over  it  close  together. 
A  whisper  passed  between  them.  Its  sibilance,  though  not 
its  purport,  could  be  heard  through  the  silenced  cham 
ber.  The  clerk  of  the  Senate  turned  away,  not  toward 
his  desk,  but  toward  the  curtained  exit. 

"Mr.  Clerk!"  Martin  Embree 's  voice  was  not  raised 


COMMON  CAUSE  115 

by  the  iota  of  a  tone ;  yet  it  stopped  the  man  in  his  tracks. 
"Not  one  step  out  of  my  sight  with  that  document." 

"The  Senator  will  come  to  order.  The  Senator  will  ad 
dress  himself  to  the  chair,"  rebuked  the  President. 

Embree's  arm  rose,  rigid  as  iron,  until  his  stiffened  hand 
pointed  with  all  the  menace  of  a  weapon  straight  into 
the  face  of  the  discomposed  presiding  officer. 

"  Mr.  President,  I  hold  you  responsible  for  the  safety 
and  integrity  of  that  document.  I  ask  you  to  direct  the 
clerk  to  read  it." 

"  Read,"  said  the  President  after  a  moment  of  hesita 
tion. 

"  'Mydear  Mr.  Dorlon,'  "  repeated  the  clerk:  "'I  have 
yours  of  the  iQth  with  directions  for  claiming  the  last  pay 
ment  from  the  Trust  Co.  Glad  you  approve  the  paper's 
course  and  are  satisfied  with  what  we  have  done  on  the 
Cheese  Commission  Bill.  Locker  and  Mayne  are  O.K.  I 
turned  over  their  balance  to  them.  We  can  whip  Smith 
into  line;  Cary,  Sellers,  and  Gunderson,  too,  in  time.  In 
the  Senate  we  owe  a  great  deal  to ' "  (the  clerk's  voice 
faltered)  '"Bellows'"  (the  clerk's  name  was  Bellows). 
"  '  Better  look  after  him.  Let  me  know  when  you  come 
to  the  Capitol. 

"  '  Yours  very  truly,  (Signed)  A.  M.  WYMETT.  ' " 

Dead  silence  followed,  in  which  the  footsteps  of  the 
messenger  returning  the  document  to  Senator  Embree, 
sounded  loud  and  hollow.  Then  a  voice  (unidentified) 
pronounced  from  the  gallery  in  accents  of  intensest  con 
viction:  "Well,  I  am  damned!"  Which  inspired  another 
voice  (also  unidentified)  to  adjure  solemnly,  "Burn  this 
letter."  The  Senate  found  relief  in  nervous,  shrill,  titter- 


n6  COMMON  CAUSE 

ing  laughter.  "  Will  the  papers  print  that?  "  shouted  some 
body,  and  the  presiding  officer  recovering,  hammered 
vehemently  for  order. 

"  Gentlemen, "  concluded  Martin  Embree,  the  damna 
tory  letter  raised  to  the  level  of  his  head, "  I  leave  to  this 
honorable  body  the  determination  as  between  the  Hon 
orable  A.  M.  Wymett,  editor  and  proprietor  of  The  Fen- 
chester  Guardian,  and  myself." 

He  sat  down. 

Jeremy  turned  to  his  fellow  reporter,  with  questioning 
eyes. 

"  Knock-out,"  said  Galpin. 

"  Criminal  charge,  is  n't  it?  " 

"Guess  so.  Anyhow,  it's  good-bye  Guardian.  So  far 
as  Wymett 's  concerned,  anyway.  The  crooked  hound!" 

"  Did  n't  you  know  he  was  doing  their  dirty  work?  " 

11 1  knew  he  took  orders.  I  did  n't  know  he  took 
money.  We  all  take  orders.  You  '11  take  orders  when  you 
suppress  this  story." 

"Can  it  be  suppressed?" 

"  It 's  got  to  be.  Honor  of  the  profession  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing.  Let 's  get  out.  I  want  some  air." 

Outside  they  walked  along  for  a  block,  before  either 
spoke.  Jeremy  said:  "Andy,  how's  this  going  to  affect 
you?" 

"  Don't  know.  Shut  up  about  it,  can't  you !  Talk  about 
something  else." 

"All  right,"  agreed  the  other  cheerfully.  "I'll  talk 
about  myself.  I  've  got  a  chance  to  make  a  change.  What 
do  you  think  of  editorial  writing?  "  \ 

"  Nice,  soft  job.  If  you  can  do  it.   I  could  n't." 

"lean." 


COMMON  CAUSE  117 

"Go  to  it,  then.   Only  I  would  n't  stick  to  it." 

"Why  not?" 

Galpin  rubbed  his  shaggy  head.  "Oh,  I  dunno.  Too 
much  preaching  of  the  other  fellow's  doctrine,  I  guess." 

Jeremy's  mind  reverted  to  Milliken's  view  and  he  won 
dered  how  nearly  the  two  agreed.  Certainly  between 
preaching  and  the  profession  to  which  the  Socialist  had 
bitterly  likened  editorializing,  yawned  the  widest  of  gulfs. 
He  stated  Milliken's  characterization. 

"Rough  stuff,"  commented  Galpin.  "I  guess  there's 
something  in  it,  though.  Ay-ah.  I  get  his  point." 

"Then  you  would  n't  take  the  job?" 

"You  might  try  it  on  for  a  while.  But  as  a  perma 
nency  —  well,  it  seems  to  me  a  fellow  that 's  settled  down 
to  write  editorials  for  another  man  all  his  life  has  sort  of 
given  up." 

"Given  up?  What?" 

"Everything.  He's  licked.  Ay-ah.  He's  a  beaten 
man.  He's  under  contract  to  think  another  man's 
thoughts  and  make  other  folks  think  'em  if  he  can." 

"Are  n't  we  doing  that  as  reporters?  " 

"Not  so  much.  Facts  ain't  thoughts.  You  can  report 
and  keep  your  mind  independent.  That 's  why  I  climb  off 
the  desk  whenever  I  can,  like  to-day.  Whew!  I  came 
near  having  Mr.  Wymett  go  along  with  me.  He  was  held 
up  at  the  last  minute." 

Galpin  turned  into  his  office.  Jeremy  went  to  The  Rec 
ord  to  report  to  Wackley  and  was  turned  over  to  Mr. 
Farley. 

"Nothing  about  The  Guardian  can  be  published,  of 
course,"  prescribed  that  diplomat,  who  had  already 
been  in  communication  with  the  local  leaders.  "Give  us 


ii8  COMMON  CAUSE 

half  a  column  of  the  rest.    And  go  light.   It's  ticklish 
ground." 

After  finishing,  Jeremy  went  out  for  a  long  and  thought 
ful  walk.  On  his  return  home  he  found  a  letter  with  the 
letterhead  of  Messrs.  Hunt  &  Hunt,  Attorneys,  of  Phila 
delphia.  The  firm  begged  to  inform  him  that,  with  due 
allowance  for  taxes  and  fees,  he  was  heir,  under  his  great- 
aunt's  will,  to  the  sum  of  #86,730.18. 


CHAPTER  XI 

AFTER  listening  to  Andrew  Galpin's  verbal  report 
upon  Senator  Martin  Embree's  painful  and  convinc 
ing  characterization  of  The  Guardian's  editorial  page  as 
for  sale  to  the  highest  bidder,  backed  up  by  discouraging 
details  regarding  himself,  A.  M.  Wymett  retired  to  his 
house  to  commune  with  a  bottle  and  a  time-table  of  the 
trains  to  Canada.  As  a  man's  house  is  his  castle  and  as 
castles  are  not  connected  with  a  troublous  and  unchari 
table  world  by  wires  of  communication,  he  further  fortified 
his  position  by  cutting  off  the  telephone.  He  then  pro 
foundly  considered  his  prospects  and  as  profoundly  mis- 
liked  them. 

As  befitted  the  owner  of  a  pliable  daily,  Mr.  Wymett 
was  thoroughly  conversant  with  the  law  bearing  upon 
publications.  It  seemed  unpleasantly  probable  to  him 
that  his  ill-fated  letter  laid  him  open  to  indictment  on 
any  one  of  three  counts.  That  smiling  Mart  Embree 
would  push  for  criminal  action,  he  had  little  doubt.  The 
Guardian  unhappily  had  nothing  on  the  Senator;  he 
could  n't  be  blackmailed.  If  the  financial  and  political 
powers  in  control  would  stand  by,  The  Guardian  could 
weather  the  storm,  albeit  severely  battered  in  reputation. 
But  would  they?  Could  they  afford  to  in  view  of  the  defi 
nite  nature  of  the  exposure?  Mr.  Wymett  supped  gloom 
ily  and  alone  with  this  question  and  afterward  took  it  into 
his  study  with  him  for  the  evening's  speculation.  His 
long,  grave,  immobile,  ascetic  face  grew  longer,  graver, 
more  immobile,  and  more  ascetic  as  the  facts  in  their 


120  COMMON  CAUSE 

bearing  upon  him  massed  a  formidable  array  of  cons 
against  a  scraggly  and  wavering  handful  of  pros. 

Upon  him  thus  absorbed,  and  steadily  absorbing  (for 
the  bottle  was  still  his  counselor),  intruded  young  Rob- 
son  of  The  Record. 

"Nothing  to  say  for  publication,"  snapped  Wymett, 
professionally  shocked  at  the  idea  of  his  rival's  making 
capital  of  his  misfortunes. 

"We  're  not  printing  anything,"  pleasantly  replied  his 
visitor. 

"  What  do  you  want,  then?  " 

"Will  you  sell  The  Guardian?" 

"To  whom?" 

"To  me." 

Mr.  Wymett  leaned  back  from  his  desk  and  studied  his 
caller  from  beneath  heavy  eyelids.  His  posture  lent  to  his 
face  a  furtively  benevolent  look  as  of  one  meditating  the 
performance  of  a  good  deed  on  the  sly.  Such  was  not  his 
precise  intent,  as  regarded  young  Robson.  He  did  n't 
trust  young  Robson.  He  did  n't  trust  The  Record.  For 
that  matter  he  was  not  in  a  mood  to  trust  anybody  or  any 
thing  in  a  calumnious  world.  He  opened  a  small  cabinet 
at  his  elbow  which  he  had  hastily  closed  upon  young 
Robson 's  entrance. 

"  May  I  offer  you  a  drink?  "  he  said. 

"No;  thank  you." 

"Good!  Nothing  mixes  so  badly  with  printer's  ink," 
approved  the  older  man  patronizingly.  "  I  seldom  touch 
it,  otherwise  than  as  a  digestant."  He  poured  himself  a 
liberal  allowance  and  set  the  glass  on  his  desk.  "Whom 
do  you  represent?" 

"Myself." 


COMMON  CAUSE  121 

Mr.  Wymett  smiled  tolerantly.  "  Of  course.  But  whose 
capital?" 

"My  own." 

"  A  secret  deal,  eh?  What  reason  have  you  to  suppose 
that  the  paper  is  for  sale?  " 

"  I  was  in  the  Senate." 

Thus  unpleasantly  recalled  to  his  thorny  situation, 
Mr.  Wymett  gulped  down  his  whiskey  and  hastily  poured 
another. 

"A  bare-faced  forgery,"  he  asserted  with  an  effect 
of  judicial  severity;  "as  will  be  proved  at  the  proper 
time." 

"  Let  us  assume  it  to  be,  for  the  sake  of  courtesy.  It  got 
a  quick  endorsement,"  replied  young  Robson  smoothly. 

Mr.  Wymett  hastily  set  down  the  re-filled  glass  which 
he  was  voluptuously  raising,  and  rather  wished  that  he 
had  n't  taken  that  other  one.  Young  Robson  was  not, 
perhaps,  as  young  as  his  years. 

"Endorsement?"  he  inquired. 

"Locker  and  Mayne  have  skipped  out.  The  forgery 
impressed  them  to  that  extent." 

"Yellow,"  commented  the  severe  Mr.  Wymett.  His 
hand  crept  toward  the  stimulant  which  possesses  the 
mystic  power  of  changing  timorous  yellow  into  fighting 
red  —  up  to  a  point  —  and  was  retracted  again  before  at 
taining  the  goal.  The  caller's  quick  eye  noted  the  move 
ment.  "They  own  no  part  of  The  Guardian,"  added  its 
proprietor,  "  and  their  action  has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
matter  of  its  sale." 

"No,"  commented  young  Robson  in  a  tone  disturb 
ingly  indeterminate  between  confirmation  and  incredu 
lity. 


122  COMMON  CAUSE 

"  I've  been  offered  a  hundred  thousand  for  the  paper," 
remarked  Mr.  Wymett  casually. 

"  Coal-oil  Johnny  must  have  been  out  this  way." 

"My  dear  young  sir,"  said  Mr.  Wymett  in  a  tone  in 
tended  to  be  crushing;  "I  am  talking  business.  May  I 
trouble  you  to  do  the  same?" 

"Then  The  Guardian  is  for  sale." 

"Everything  in  this  world  is  for  sale,  at  its  price,"  re 
turned  the  editor-owner,  thereby  unconsciously  voicing 
his  philosophy  of  life. 

"  I  assume  that  the  price  of  The  Guardian  has  not  been 
increased  by  the  events  of  to-day." 

"Assume  nothing  of  the  sort." 

Young  Mr.  Robson  leaned  forward  over  the  desk.  "Shall 
I  talk  plain  talk?" 

"If  you  please." 

"There'll  be  an  indictment  if  you  stay  here." 

"There  will.  For  forgery.  Against  the  author  of  that 
faked  letter." 

"Against  you.   Nothing  can  stop  it." 

"Did  Embree  promise  you  that?" 

"There 's  no  question  of  promise.  I  don't  even  get  your 
idea." 

"  Indeed !  Suppose  you  give  me  credit  for  a  gleam  of  in 
telligence.  Nothing  more  is  required  to  see  your  game. 
Yours  and  Embree 's.  He  wants  to  get  his  hands  on  a 
paper  here.  He  fakes  up  this  attack  on  me  and  The  Guard 
ian  to  bulldoze  me  into  selling  the  paper.  You  are  his 
tool.  The  pair  of  you  think  you  can  run  me  off  my  own 
property  with  an  unloaded  gun.  Not  A.  M.  Wymett ! " 

"Very  ingenious.  But  Senator  Embree  does  n't  happen 
to  enter  into  this  in  any  way,  shape,  or  manner." 


COMMON  CAUSE  123 

"Then  who  is  backing  you?  Is  it  Phipps  and  the 
brewery  crowd?  Or  the  banking  trust?  I  don't  suppose 
you  Ve  saved  the  money  out  of  your  twenty-five  a  week 
from  The  Record." 

"That's  beside  the  question.  The  money  is  there.  Sev 
enty  thousand  dollars  flat." 

Into  Mr.  Wymett's  parched-looking  eyes  shot  a  swift 
gleam,  only  to  be  as  swiftly  veiled.  He  lifted  and  slowly 
drank  the  liquor  before  him.  He  shook  his  head. 

"Not  to  be  considered.  Absurd." 

"It  is  what  I  figure  The  Guardian  to  be  worth;  to  have 
been  worth  up  to  two-fifteen  this  afternoon." 

"It  is  worth  just  as  much  now  as  it  was  yesterday." 

"Seventy  thousand  dollars,"  pursued  young  Robson 
as  if  the  other  had  not  spoken.  "I'd  like  your  answer." 

"  Indeed !  And  when  would  you  like  it?  " 

The  visitor  glanced  at  the  clock. 

"Say,  an  hour." 

"Come,  now!  You  are  n't  so  innocent  of  business  as  to 
suppose  that  deals  of  this  importance  are  put  through  on 
any  such  hair-trigger  basis." 

"Not  ordinarily.  This  is  rather  special,  is  n't  it?"  in 
sinuated  the  other. 

"Frankly,  I  don't  like  your  attitude,  Mr.  Robson." 

"Consider  your  own."  Jeremy's  eyes  hardened. 
"You're  fiddling  and  faddling  within  a  step  of  the  peni 
tentiary.  They'll  get  you  if  you  try  to  hang  to  The 
Guardian.  Public  sentiment  will  demand  it.  Do  you 
know  that  the  Bellair  papers  are  carrying  the  story?" 

"Damn  'em!"  said  Mr.  Wymett  and  visited  the  de 
canter  again. 

"So,  you  see  how  far  it's  gone.   Now,  if  it  is  known 


124  COMMON  CAUSE 

that  you're  out  of  the  paper,  they'll  let  up  on  you,  won't 
they?  That  looks  to  me  like  the  politics  of  it." 

"  Probably,"  agreed  Mr.  Wymett. 

"Well,  what  do  you  say?" 

"Let  me  talk  to  my  lawyer." 

The  Honorable  Selden  Dana  was  summoned,  and  came 
after  a  short  delay,  in  the  course  of  which  Mr.  Wymett 
had  two  more  whiskies  to  his  own  good  luck,  for  the  price 
offered  was  better  than  he  could  have  reasonably  hoped. 
On  Judge  Dana's  arrival  he  and  Mr.  Wymett  retired  for  a 
conference.  It  was  brief.  Three  words  comprised  the 
lawyer's  advice:  "Sell  and  git!" 

"You've  bought,  Mr.  Robson,"  he  said,  returning  with 
his  client  for  a  drink,  and  departed  thoughtfully,  leaving 
the  old  and  the  new  owner  of  The  Guardian  with  duly 
signed  preliminary  agreements  in  their  pockets.  Jeremy 
was  to  take  over  control  the  first  of  the  succeeding 
month. 

"So  you  won't  say  where  the  money  comes  from?"  said 
the  now  relaxed  and  smiling  Mr.  Wymett. 

"For  publication?" 

"Oh,  no.  To  satisfy  personal  curiosity." 
J   "For  that  I  would  n't.  Public  curiosity,  though;  that's 
different.    I  suppose  people  will  be  interested  to  know 
who's  back  of  the  paper." 

"Certainly." 

"Then  I'll  look  to  you  to  tell  them.  In  to-morrow's 
Guardian.  These  are  the  facts,  which  you  can  verify  by 
wire  if  you  wish."  And  he  related  to  the  surprised  Mr. 
Wymett  the  main  circumstances  of  the  Greer  will. 
"When  that  is  published,"  he  concluded,  "people  will 
understand  that  it 's  my  own  money,  that  The  Guardian 


COMMON  CAUSE  125 

is  my  own  paper,  and  that  there  are  no  strings  on  it  or 
me." 

Mr.  Wymett  had  another  drink —  "  just  one  more"  — 
to  the  success  of  The  Guardian  under  its  new  manage 
ment,  and  became  expansive  for  once  in  his  cautious  life. 

"You've  bought  into  a  sporting  proposition,  young 
man."  The  retiring  editor  rested  his  lined  and  puckered 
face  on  his  hand,  and  regarded  his  vis-a-vis  thoughtfully. 
"A sporting  proposition.  Oh,  God;  I 'm  glad  to  be  out  of 
it  —  and  sorry !  It 's  a  hell  of  a  life,  and  I  've  loved  it.  But 
in  the  end  it  gets  you.  Like  a  drug." 

He  sat  staring  in  a  brief  silence  at  the  young,  sanguine, 
keen  face  before  him;  a  sad,  humorous-eyed,  ageing,  slov 
enly,  dishonest,  tolerant  philosopher. 

"You're  young,"  he  broke  forth.  "Young  enough, 
probably,  to  believe  that  you  can  run  a  newspaper  and 
still  be  —  and  still  keep  your  ideals.  Oh,  I  had  'em,  when 
I  started  in,  just  as  you  Ve  got  'em.  Of  course  you  Ve  got 
'em!  They  go  with  youth.  Perhaps  they'd  stay  with 
youth  if  youth  would  stay  with  us.  But  you  grow  old  so 
damnably  fast  in  this  game.  Look  at  me!  Or  perhaps 
you'd  better  not  look  at  me.  You  might  see  yourself  as 
you'll  be  at  my  age." 

"Not  me,"  returned  Jeremy  Robson  with  unflattering 
conviction. 

"Not?  Well,  perhaps  not.  I'm  an  old  babbler.  So  you 
want  Fenchester  to  know  that  it 's  your  own  money  that 's 
behind  the  paper?" 

"Yes;  so  they'll  understand  that  it's  a  strictly  one-man 
proposition." 

"And  you  think  it's  going  to  be.  Oh,  well;  for  a  little 
while,  maybe.  Then — "  His  voice  was  as  that  of  one 


126  COMMON  CAUSE 

who  regretfully  deprives  a  child  of  a  sweetmeat  — 
" you '11  forego  that  happy  and  infantile  dream.  You're 
not  going  to  run  your  newspaper  just  because  you've 
bought  it.  The  politicians  are  going  to  run  it  for  you. 
The  banks  are  going  to  run  it  for  you.  The  railroads  and 
trolley  lines  and  water-power  companies  and  public- 
utility  people  are  going  to  run  it  for  you.  And  always  the 
advertisers  —  the  advertisers  —  the  advertisers.  You  're 
going  to  be  just  a  little,  careful,  polite  Recording  Secre 
tary  for  them  all.  You  '11  print  what  they  tell  you  to  and 
you  '11  kill  what  they  forbid  you  to  print.  Otherwise  you 
can't  live.  Don't  I  know!  I  've  tried  it  —  both  ways." 

He  dreamed  with  somnolent  eyes  back  over  the  happy, 
troubled,  iniquitous,  exciting  years  of  The  Guardian. 
"And  so  you  think  you'll  change  all  that!  Not  much  to 
be  left  of  the  old  Guardian,  eh?  Perhaps  not  even  his 
figurehead,  blowing  his  trumpet  over  the  paper's  title.  I 
hope  you'll  leave  that,  though.  It's  been  there  a  long 
time.  Fifty-odd  years.  'Almost  as  long  as  I  've  lived.  For 
old  times'  sake  I  'd  like  to  see  him  stay,  the  old  Guardian. 
We  newspaper  men  are  all  sentimentalists  and  conserva 
tives  at  heart." 

"Not  me,"  denied  Jeremy.  "Not  the  conservative 
part,  anyway.  But  I  '11  leave  The  Guardian  his  trumpet." 

"That  trumpet!  I  was  going  to  rock  the  walls  of  Jeri 
cho  with  it !  They  still  stand ;  you  may  have  noticed  that. 
There's  a  lot  of  solidity  about  our  modern  Jericho.  As 
for  us  poor  Joshuas  of  the  newspapers,  our  trumpet  is  n't 
a  trumpet  any  more.  It 's  the  horn  of  a  talking-machine. 
We're  just  damned  phonographs  playing  the  records 
that  bigger  men  thrust  into  our  mechanical  insides.  Am 
I  boring  you?" 


COMMON  CAUSE  127 

"Go  on,"  said  Jeremy  Robson.  "I  took  a  course  in 
journalism  at  college.  There  was  nothing  in  it  like 
this." 

"There  would  n't  be.  I'd  like  to  lecture  to  'em  on  the 
Voice  of  the  Press.  The  Voice  from  the  Horn !  Nickel-in- 
the-slot  and  you  get  your  tune.  The  politician  drops  his 
coin  in  and  gets  his  favorite  selection,  in  consideration  of  a 
job  on  a  board.  The  city  authorities  drop  their  coin  in  — 
that's  the  official  printing  —  and  you  sing  their  little 
song.  The  railroads  drop  in  a  few  favors,  passes  and  the 
like,  and  the  horn  grinds  out  their  pet  record.  And  always 
the  advertiser,  big,  small,  and  medium;  he  owns  your 
paper,  news  and  editorials,  and  you'll  do  as  he  says  or 
—  where  do  you  get  off ! 

"And  then  there's  the  silencers,"  continued  the  re 
morseless  lecturer.  "Don't  forget  the  silencers.  The 
Dutch  and  the  Swedes  and  the  Norwegians  and  the  Irish, 
all  with  tender  toes.  The  Jews  and  the  Methodists  and  the 
Catholics  and  the  Lutherans,  all  touchy  as  wasps.  You 
can't  afford  to  play  any  tune  they  don't  like.  And  always 
there's  Deutschtum.  Know  what  'Deutschtum'  is?  No, 
you  would  n't.  Well,  it  means  that  German-Americans 
are  organized  for  German  purposes  all  through  the  Mid 
dle  West,  and  nowhere  more  strongly  than  in  this  State. 
When  Germany  declares  war  on  Europe,  which  will  be 
within  ten  years  —  yes,  I've  been  grinned  at  before  by 
people  who  considered  this  just  a  crazy  hobby  of  mine  — 
all  our  Bunds  and  Vereins  and  Gesellschafts  are  going  to 
see  to  it  that  the  United  States  either  stays  out  or  goes  in 
on  the  'right'  side.  Why,  they're  making  a  Little  Ger 
many  of  us  right  here  in  this  State  and  city  by  slow, 
methodical,  Teuton  education,  managed  by  our  school 


128  COMMON  CAUSE 

boards  which  are  run  by  Germans,  trained  to  it  in  the 
public  schools  — " 

"That's  a  thing  I'd  like  to  tackle,"  said  Robson 
thoughtfully. 

" Hands  off,  young  David!  The  Dutch  Goliath  is  too 
big  for  your  sling.  No,  sir!  Stand  in  with  them.  You'll 
find  them  reasonable  and  easy  enough  to  deal  with  so  long 
as  you  don't  interfere  with  their  programme.  Play  the 
German  tune  and  they'll  play  yours.  Study  'em,  flatter 
'em  a  little,  and  watch  'em.  Theirs  is  the  winning  game. 

"To  trail  along  with  the  successful  element,"  contin 
ued  the  cynical  oracle:  "That's  the  great  secret.  It's  the 
only  way  for  a  newspaper.  There  lies  your  profit." 

"In  other  words,  selling  out  to  the  highest  bidder," 
translated  his  disenchanted  listener. 

The  volunteer  professor  of  journalism  took  one  more 
drink  and  gazed  with  surprise  and  reproach  at  the  empty 
bottle. 

"Oh,  I  don't  say  you  '11  sell  out,  all  at  once.  It 's  a  grad 
ual  process.  Step  by  step,  finding  a  nice  soft  excuse  to 
plant  your  foot  on  each  time,  until  you  hit  the  bottom. 
Don't  I  know!  What  you  won't  do  for  fear,  you'll  do  for 
friendship  —  and  then  for  favor  —  and  then  for  prefer 
ment."  His  voice  dropped,  and  his  eyes  sought  the  empty 
liquor  glass.  "And  then  —  for  cash." 

The  younger  man  stirred,  uneasy  under  that  intimate 
and  betraying  confidence. 

"Oh,  it's  a  rotten  game,  and  Lord!  how  I  hate  to  be 
quitting  it!"  pursued  the  philosopher.  "How  I'd  love  to 
be  you,  just  getting  really  into  it!  Perhaps  I'd  do  differ 
ent.  Make  a  better  job  of  it.  Keep  to  my  ideals.  Perhaps 
not.  Too  heavy  odds."  His  eyes  lifted  again  with  a 


COMMON  CAUSE  129 

bleary,  dreamy  wistfulness.  "So  you're  going  to  run  an 
honest  newspaper  in  Fenchester,  are  you,  son?'* 

The  visitor  rose.   "You  bet  I  am!"  he  said  jubilantly. 

[Often  in  the  vivid  years  to  follow,  the  young  owner  of 
The  Guardian  had  cause  to  reflect  that  the  shrewdest 
professional  advice  which  he  had  ever  disregarded  came 
from  one  who  had  just  "stuck"  him  with  an  all-but-ruin 
ous  bargain.] 

Late  as  was  the  interview,  he  could  n't  go  to  bed  with 
out  telling  Andrew  Galpin.  Much  depended  on  that  as 
tute  youth.  Jeremy  routed  him  out  of  bed,  at  his  board 
ing-house. 

"  Come  out  and  get  a  rarebit  and  a  stein  of  beer,  Andy." 

"Ay-a-a-ah!"  yawned  Galpin.  "Watsamatter  with 
you?  What  time  is  it?" 

"Quarter  to  one." 

"You're  crazy,  young  fellow." 

"I'm  worse  than  that.  I've  just  bought  The  Guard 
ian." 

"What!" 

"That's  what." 

" Where 'd  you  get  the  money?" 

"Left  to  me." 

"How  much  did  you  pay?" 

"Seventy  thousand." 

"Seventy!  You  fat-wit!" 

"What's  the  matter  with  that?"  asked  Jeremy,  crest 
fallen. 

"Twenty  thousand  nice,  fat,  round,  cool  dollars  is 
what's  the  matter  with  it.  Why  did  n't  you  tell  me?" 

"Didn't  have  the  time.  I  caught  Wymett  when  he 
was  scared." 


130  COMMON  CAUSE 

"He  caught  you  when  you  were  easy,"  retorted  Gal- 
pin  in  disgust.  "How  did  you  happen  to  get  stuck  for 
seventy?" 

Jeremy  looked  sulky.  "I  figured  it  out  on  a  basis  of 
advertising  and  circulation." 

"Oh,  hell!  You  poor  innocent!"  These  unpalatable 
observations  he  left  his  caller  to  digest  while  he  retired  to 
wash  his  face.  In  the  act  of  lacing  up  his  left  boot  he 
remarked:  "You  could  have  got  it  for  fifty.  Fifty-five 
at  the  outside." 

"It  ought  to  make  eight  thousand  a  year." 

"On  paper,"  was  Galpin's  laconic  comment.  He  looked 
up  from  his  right  boot.  "  Its  advertising  rate  card  is  all 
bunk.  Rotten  with  rebates." 

"Oh !"  said  Jeremy  blankly.  "Anyway,  it  can  be  made 
to  make  money,"  he  added,  recovering. 

"Maybe.   How  much  reserve  have  you  got?" 

"Oh,  about  fifteen  thousand." 

"It'll  eat  that  in  the  first  year,"  observed  Galpin, 
slipping  into  his  suspenders. 

A  dismayed  silence  fell  between  the  friends.  "Well, 
come  on,"  said  Jeremy  finally. 

"I'm  afraid  I'll  spoil  your  appetite." 

"You  have  n't  improved  it,"  admitted  Jeremy.  "So 
you  think  I  Ve  made  a  fool  of  myself." 

"I  think  you  Ve  bought  a  dog,  and  an  old  dog." 

"It  can  be  taught  new  tricks." 

"A  yellow  dog." 

"It  hasn't  always  been  yellow.  It  needn't  keep  on 
being." 

"I  don't  think  you'll  be  comfortable  in  its  hide." 

"Andy,  I'd  counted  on  you." 


COMMON  CAUSE  131 

Galpin  stopped  buttoning  his  waistcoat  and  looked  up. 
"For  what?" 

"To  help  me  make  a  real  newspaper." 

"As  how?" 

"General  manager." 

"Is  that  why  you're  asking  me  out  to  beer  up,  young 
fellow?" 

"Yes." 

Galpin  removed  his  waistcoat  and  hung  it  neatly  on  a 
chair  back.  He  then  proceeded  to  unlace  his  right  boot. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  demanded  Jeremy. 

"Going  back  to  bed." 

"Not  interested?" 

"Worse  than  that.  I  'm  excited." 

"Want  time  to— " 

« Want  nothin'P 

"Well,  but— " 

"No  beer  for  me.  No  midnight  racketings.  I  go  on  the 
water  wagon  right  here.  Also  the  sleep  wagon."  He 
folded  his  trousers  lengthwise  upon  his  trunk,  and  reached 
for  his  pajamas.  "I  advise  you  the  same,"  he  added. 
"We've  got  a  job,  you  and  I,  training  a  yellow  dog  to 
jump  in  and  fight  for  its  life." 

!    "You're  on  for  the  job,  then,  Andy?"  cried  Jeremy. 
;    "Boss,"  said  Andrew  Galpin,  rolling  over  into  his  dis 
hevelled  bed,  "you've  hired  a  hand." 


END  OF  PART  I 


PART  II 


CHAPTER  I 

MOTIVES  not  fully  formulated  had  impelled  Jeremy 
Robson  to  the  purchase  of  The  Fenchester  Guard 
ian.  Now  that  he  was  face  to  face  with  the  multiform 
problem  of  what  he  was  to  do  with  his  new  responsibility, 
he  sought  to  determine  why  he  had  possessed  himself  of 
it,  hoping  to  discover  in  that  Why  a  clue  to  his  future 
course. 

Several  figures  at  once  stepped  to  the  front  of  his  mind 
and  imperiously  claimed  credit  for  inspiring  his  action. 
There  was  Montrose  Clark  who  had  capped  his  imper 
sonal  insolences  by  the  shibboleth,  "rippawtah."  No 
body  was  ever  going  to  give  Jeremy  Robson  curt  orders 
as  a  " rippawtah"  again.  (But  he  had  the  saving  sense 
to  grin  at  himself  for  the  triviality  of  it !)  There  was  An 
drew  Galpin,  who  had  said  of  the  pleasant  pursuit  of  edi 
torial  writing  that  the  practitioner  of  it  "was  licked  —  a 
beaten  man,"  thus  taking  all  the  gloss  from  that  phase. 
There  was  Milliken,  crude,  coarse,  malicious,  with  his 
inept  but  biting  epithets,  and  his  blatant  jibes  at  the  ne 
cessities  of  hired-man  (or  worse-than-hired-woman)  jour 
nalism.  There  was  Eli  Wade,  whom  he  had  written  down 
to  order  —  though  herein  Jeremy  was  still  dallying  with 
self-delusions,  since  it  was  the  lure  of  his  own  facile  pen 
that  had  betrayed  him  there  —  and  to  whom  he  owed  a 
reparation  which  he  could  perhaps  now  make.  There  was 
his  old  purpose  of  some  day  owning  a  paper ;  quite  a  dif 
ferent  paper,  however,  from  the  feeble  and  dubious  Guard 
ian.  More  potent  was  the  influence,  never  wholly  abated, 


i36  COMMON  CAUSE 

of  that  talk  with  Senator  Martin  Embree  wherein  the 
shrewd  judge  of  men  and  agencies  had  suggested  the 
power  to  be  exerted  for  good  by  a  fair-minded,  independ 
ent  daily.  But  the  real  motivating  power  was  Marcia 
Ames.  Withdrawing  herself  from  him,  she  had  left  him  a 
legacy  of  influence  which  was,  at  the  same  time,  a  debt. 
He  owed  it  to  himself  to  prove  to  her  that  he  could  be  as 
honorable  as  she  had  deemed  him  dishonorable ;  as  trust 
worthy  as  she  had  deemed  him  unfit  to  be  trusted ;  and  he 
must  do  this  through  this  same  medium  of  print  whereby 
he  had  offended.  Something  dogged  in  him  prescribed 
that  he  should  work  out  his  salvation  there  on  the  spot. 
She  might  never  return  to  see  it.  She  might  never  even 
know  of  it.  But  it  would  be  her  work.  By  so  much,  at 
least,  Jeremy  would  hold  her.  And  in  doing  what  she 
would  have  him  do,  he  would  fill  that  bleak  and  arid 
void,  which,  lacking  hope,  can  be  appeased  only  by  ac 
tivity. 

It  was  no  easy  task  which  Jeremy  Robson  had  set  him 
self,  that  of  making  his  new  property  a  vehicle  for  ideals. 
He  was  content  that  it  should  not  be  easy.  He  craved 
hard,  exacting,  stimulant  work.  The  Guardian  offered  it 
in  more  generous  measure  than  a  better  paper  could  have 
done.  Jeremy  purposed  to  save  The  Guardian's  soul. 
Perhaps  he  had  some  underlying  notion  that  he  might 
save  his  own,  in  the  process. 

That  bad  name  which,  given  to  a  dog,  is  proverbially 
alleged  to  bring  down  upon  him  a  peculiarly  un-canine 
fate  at  the  hangman's  hands,  had  long  attached  to  The 
Fenchester  Guardian.  But  the  paper's  ill-repute  was  no 
man's  gift.  It  had  been  justly  earned.  Once  the  stiffly 
high-minded  personal  organ  of  a  stilted  and  honorable 


COMMON  CAUSE  137 

old-school  statesman,  it  had  fallen,  under  A.  M.  Wymett, 
to  become  a  mongrel  of  journalism,  a  forlorn  and  servile 
whiner,  fawning  for  petty  favors,  kicked  about  by  the 
financial  and  political  interests  of  the  State,  and  not  in 
frequently  ornamented  with  a  tin  can  of  scandal  to  its  tail 
in  the  form  of  dirty  work  performed  for  some  temporary 
subsidizer  in  the  background.  Thanks  to  shrewd  legal  ad 
vice  and  his  own  editorial  adroitness,  its  guiding  spirit 
had  contrived  to  escape  the  law,  and,  up  to  the  episode 
of  the  disastrously  imprudent  "cheese-check"  letter,  open 
and  public  contumely.  Further,  he  had,  by  dint  of  sheer 
ability  of  a  low  ethical  order  but  high  technical  grade, 
maintained  a  fair  circulation  for  his  paper. 

Its  only  competitor  in  the  bustling,  growing  State  capi 
tal,  with  its  seventy  thousand  inhabitants,  was  The  Rec 
ord.  There  was  no  morning  newspaper.  Several  plans 
to  start  one  had  come  to  naught,  because  of  the  secret 
opposition  of  the  local  leaders  of  politics  and  industry, 
who  were  well  content  with  the  two  mild  and  amenable 
specimens  of  journalism  already  in  the  field.  The  Record 
represented  stolid,  stodgy,  profitable,  and  unprogressive 
respectability  in  a  community  now  astir  with  new  and 
uneasy  fermentations.  The  Guardian  had  always  repre 
sented  what  it  was  bidden  to  represent.  What  attitude 
it  might  adopt  under  the  new  control,  was  a  question  not 
assumed  to  be  troublesome  by  those  whom  a  change 
might  conceivably  trouble  in  no  small  degree.  It  was 
comfortably  taken  for  granted  that  The  Guardian  would 
"be  good"  when  the  time  and  test  came.  For  the  cor 
ruptible  to  put  on  incorruptibility,  in  the  newspaper 
world,  is  a  phenomenon  so  rare  as  to  be  practically  neg 
ligible. 


138  COMMON  CAUSE 

Soon  or  late  these  questions  would  come  to  an  issue  be 
tween  the  new  owner  of  The  Guardian  and  those  who  had 
quietly  controlled  it  for  their  own  ends.  So  much  Jeremy 
Robson  apprehended.  What  he  had  not  foreseen  was  a 
more  immediate  and  imperative  consideration.  He  had 
vaguely  believed  that  he  was  taking  possession  of  a  semi- 
public  agency  of  enlightenment.  He  found  that  he  had 
bought  a  Struggle  for  Existence.  Quite  a  number  of 
shrewd  and  active  citizens  whose  existence  had  not  hith 
erto  impressed  him  as  important,  loomed  as  figures  and 
probably  antagonists  in  the  struggle.  Jeremy  found  him 
self  in  the  way  of  learning  some  new  and  important  things 
about  the  newspaper  business,  with  his  local  advertisers 
in  the  pedagogic  chair. 

Newspapers  do  not  live  by  the  bread  of  circulation 
alone,  but  chiefly  by  the  strong  and  sustaining  meat  of 
advertising  patronage.  This  important  fact  had  duly  en 
tered  into  Jeremy  Robson 's  calculations.  On  paper  he 
had  figured  a  clear  profit  for  The  Guardian,  before  pur 
chasing.  After  taking  over  the  property  he  found  his  esti 
mates  borne  out  by  the  formal  accounts.  But  he  also 
found,  to  his  discomfiture,  that  The  Guardian's  books  had 
been  kept  by  a  sunny  optimist  with  a  taste  for  fiction. 
This  gentleman  had  plugged  up  the  discrepancies  in  the 
paper's  finances  with  ingenious  figures,  as  a  boat-jerry 
might  doctor  a  leaky  seam  with  putty  and  paint  —  for 
sale  only. 

The  book  figures  showed  but  one  scale  of  advertising 
rates,  with  the  normal  discounts  to  heavy  users  of  space. 
While  the  new  toy  was  still  agleam  in  the  eyes  of  its  proud 
possessor  with  all  the  glamour  of  novelty,  he  began  to 
discover  that  instead  of  a  standard  price  to  advertisers, 


COMMON  CAUSE  139 

The  Guardian  had  more  scales  than  even  so  fishy  a  propo 
sition  was  entitled  to;  that,  in  fact,  A.  M.  Wymett  had 
peddled  about  his  precious  advertising  space  like  a  man 
with  stolen  diamonds  to  sell,  and  covered  the  shady  trans 
actions  by  a  system  of  ingenious  and  destructive  rebates. 
Thus,  the  columns  which  young  Mr.  Robson  had  confid 
ingly  calculated  at  four  to  nine  cents  per  line,  were  actu 
ally  fetching  from  five  cents  downward. 

"That's  the  first  thing  to  be  set  right,"  announced 
Jeremy  after  a  profoundly  unsatisfactory  study  of  his 
property's  earning  capacity  as  contrasted  with  its  paper 
profits.  "  We  '11  have  a  one-price-to-all  system  hereafter." 

"Ay-ah,"  drawled  Andrew  Galpin,  to  whom  the  deci 
sion  was  communicated.  "Your  advertisers '11  just  love 
that!" 

"They  ought  to  be  satisfied.  It 's  the  only  square  way." 

"Oh,  they'll  be  satisfied  if  you  put  the  scale  low 
enough.  But  if  you  put  the  scale  low  enough  you'll  go 
broke." 

"Wymett  did  n't  go  broke." 

"The  Guardian  had  other  sources  of  revenue  under 
Wymett." 

"Such  as  the  Cheese  Bill  fund?" 

"Occasionally.  Also  the  steady,  reliable  revenue  from 
the  advertising  matter  that  does  n't  bear  the  a-d-v  sign." 

"You  mean  store  'readers'  and  that  sort  of  thing?  I  'm 
going  to  cut  those  out." 

"Are  you?  They're  semi-legitimate.  Compared  with 
some  of  the  stuff  we  Ve  carried  they  're  so  high-principled 
they're  almost  holy." 

"Well,  what,  for  instance?" 

"Paid  editorials.    Paid  political  articles.    Paid  puffs 


140  COMMON  CAUSE 

and  roasts.  Brewery  checks.  Railroad  checks.  P.-U. 
checks.  Paving  and  other  contractors'  checks.  You  can 
read  it  all  in  the  back  files,  if  you're  newspaper  man 
enough  to  read  between  the  lines." 

"I  never  saw  any  of  that  on  The  Record." 

"It  ain't  there.  The  Record  don't  do  it  that  way;  a 
little  more  decent.  The  Record  's  a  kept-lady.  We  're  on 
the  street  —  or  were." 

"'Were'  is  right."  Jeremy  ran  his  hands  through  his 
hair  and  regarded  his  companion  anxiously.  "Andy?"  he 
said. 

"Ay-ah?" 

"Were  you  —  Did  you  —  Never  mind.  It  does  n't 
matter." 

"Ay-ah ;  it  matters  all  right.  You  were  going  to  ask  me 
whether  I  had  to  write  any  of  that  bought-and-paid-for 
stuff.  And  you  were  afraid  to.  Is  that  right?" 

Jeremy  turned  red. 

"It's  right,"  confirmed  the  other.  "Well,  I  never  did. 
I  would  n't.  I  gave  'em  notice  that  I  was  fired  the  noon 
of  the  morning  I  got  one  of  those  jobs.  They  were  decent 
about  it.  But  I  had  to  do  the  next  worse  thing.  I  had  to 
let  myself  be  called  off  a  story  so  that  some  other  guy 
could  write  it,  and  write  it  crooked." 

"Have  we  had  any  —  any  offers  since  we  took  hold  of 
the  paper?" 

"Give  'em  time,  Boss.  It's  only  a  month,  and  in  the 
slack  period  at  that.  But  I  '11  tell  you  one  thing.  If  you  're 
going  to  change  the  entire  advertising  policy,  you  '11  have 
to  change  your  advertising  manager,  for  Perley  don't 
know  anything  different  from  the  news-selling  and  rebate 
game." 


COMMON  CAUSE  141 

"Parley's  fired." 

"So  far,  so  good.  Who've  you  got  to  take  his  place?" 

"Nobody,  yet.  Could  you  manage  it,  Andy?" 

"Temporarily,  I  might.  But  I'm  going  to  have  my 
hands  too  full  re-making  the  old  sheet  on  the  news  side 
to  give  much  time  to  advertising,  in  the  next  year  or  so." 

"Temporarily  will  do.  I'm  going  to  get  the  principal 
merchants  together  and  talk  it  out  with  them.  And  I 
want  to  show  'em  a  change  in  the  advertising  manager 
ship  that'll  convince  'em  the  change  of  policy  is  real." 

"Ay-ah,"  assented  Galpin.  "It  sounds  like  the  rumble 
of  distant  thunder  to  me." 

"Not  at  all.  All  I  want  is  a  decent,  living  rate  for  the 
paper.  Every  merchant  expects  a  living  profit  on  his 
merchandise.  Why  should  n't  a  newspaper  get  the  same?" 

"Logical.  Perfectly  logical.  But  can  you  get  'em  to  see 
it  that  way?"  Andrew  Galpin  paused  and  then  delivered 
himself  of  a  characteristic  bit  of  shrewdness.  "The  aver 
age  storekeeper  regards  advertising  outlay  as  a  sort  of 
accepted  blackmail  which  he  pays  under  protest;  he  don't 
know  exactly  why,  and  he  don't  know  exactly  for  what.  If 
you  made  him  reason  it  out,  he'd  probably  say  that  he 
don't  believe  it  pays,  but  everybody  does  it.  Of  course, 
he  don't  know  whether  it  pays  or  not.  Nobody  does, 
really." 

"Then  why  does  he  do  it?" 

"Because  his  competitors  do.  He  's  afraid  not  to.  He 
has  some  dim  sort  of  fear  that  the  papers  will  soak  him  if 
he  don't.  That's  where  the  blackmail  comes  in,  if  he  had 
sense  enough  to  figure  it." 

"There  won't  be  any  blackmail  with  us." 

"But  the  merchants  won't  know  it.  They'll  advertise, 


142  COMMON  CAUSE 

and  because  they  advertise  they'll  think  thev/re  entitled 
to  a  say  in  the  paper.  They'll  try  to  run  it  for  you,  too." 

"Will  they?"  muttered  Jeremy  in  a  tone  which  sug 
gested  that  there  might  be  difficulties  attending  the  ful 
fillment  of  the  ambition. 

"Ay-ah.  In  good  faith,  too.  There's  something  in 
their  theory  —  I  guess  —  from  their  point  of  view." 

"Well,  I'll  give  them  a  chance  to  explain  it,"  said  the 
new  owner.  "My  plan  is  to  round  'em  up  at  a  lunch,  and 
then  have  it  out  with  'em.  What  do  you  think?" 

"Fine!  Feed  'em.  Then  kick  'em  in  the  stomach." 

"No,  sir!  pat  'em  on  the  back  and  talk  reason  to  them. 
That's  where  you  come  in.  They  know  you're  a  real 
newspaper  man.  They  've  got  to  find  it  out  yet,  about  me." 

Out  of  thirty  of  the  principal  local  advertisers  in  The 
Guardian,  twenty-one  accepted  Jeremy  Robson's  invita 
tion  to  lunch  with  him  at  the  Fenchester  Club,  with  a 
"business  conference"  to  follow.  Their  attitude  toward 
the  gustatory  part  of  the  proceedings  was  that  of  wary 
fish  toward  food  which  might  conceal  a  hook.  Very  nice 
luncheon,  but  —  what  was  behind  it?  They  had  never 
had  confidence  in  The  Guardian  under  A.  M.  Wymett. 
Why  should  they  have  more  in  an  unknown  quantity  like 
young  Robson? 

Sensing  plainly  this  feeling,  Jeremy  perceived  that  here 
was  the  time  and  place  for  finesse.  Unfortunately  he 
lacked  that  particular  quality.  What  was  the  next  best 
thing  to  having  it  at  call,  he  appreciated  his  want  of  it, 
and  instead  of  blundering  strategically  around  the  point 
he  went  straight  to  it  in  the  briefest  of  speeches. 

"Gentlemen:  I've  brought  you  here  to  state  the  new 
policy  of  The  Guardian.  The  advertising  rate  will  be  that 


COMMON  CAUSE  143 

of  the  rate  card.  The  same  system  of  discounts  to  all.  No 
rebates.  I  'd  be  glad  to  hear  your  views." 

He  sat  down.  A  hum  of  surprise  went  about  the  table. 
Some  one  started  applause:  the  effort  was  abortive.  It 
was  no  occasion  for  empty  courtesies.  This  was  business ! 

"Talks  straight,"  remarked  Betts,  of  Kelter  &  Betts, 
dry  goods,  in  a  loud  whisper,  to  his  neighbor  Arthur  Turn- 
bull,  of  the  Emporium. 

"Bluff,"  opined  Turnbull. 

"Get  up  and  call  it,"  suggested  A.  Friedland,  proprie 
tor  of  the  Big  Shop  who  had  overheard. 

"Let  Ellison  do  the  talking,"  returned  Turnbull.  "He's 
president  of  our  association." 

Obedient  to  several  suggestions,  Matthew  Ellison,  head 
of  Ellison  Brothers'  department  store  and  president  of 
the  Retailers'  Association,  reared  his  ample  form,  and 
smiled  his  conscientious  smile,  from  above  a  graying  chin 
whisker,  upon  the  assembled  feasters.  In  a  long  and  ram 
bling  talk  which  Andrew  Galpin  would  have  fairly  slaugh 
tered  with  an  editorial  blue  pencil,  Mr.  Ellison  referred  to 
Jeremy  something  more  than  two  dozen  times  as  "our 
esteemed  young  friend"  and  at  least  a  dozen  as  "my  dear 
young  friend  "  ;  both  of  which  were  equally  accurate  and 
sincere.  The  gist  of  his  speech,  so  far  as  any  one  present 
could  grasp  it,  seemed  to  indicate  a  guarded  agnosticism 
concerning  the  announced  policy  of  the  paper.  Upon  the 
heels  of  the  windy  compliment  with  which  he  closed, 
Adolph  Ahrens,  junior  partner  and  advertising  manager 
of  the  Great  Northwestern  Stores,  popped  up.  Mr.  Ahrens 
was  a  young,  blackish,  combative- jawed  man  with  twitchy 
eyes. 

"This  don't  go,"  he  said  belligerently.    " I  've  got  a  let- 


144  COMMON  CAUSE 

ter  in  my  files,  stipulating  a  rebate,  that's  as  good  as  a 
contract." 

"Signed  by?"  queried  Jeremy  suggestively. 

"Signed  by  The  Guardian,  per  A.  M.  Wymett." 

"So  have  I,"  declared  Turnbull,  and  was  echoed  by 
Lehn,  of  Stormont  &  Lehn,  Betts,  and  half  a  dozen  more. 

"It  seems  to  have  been  a  habit,"  remarked  Jeremy. 
"But,  gentlemen,  A.  M.  Wymett  is  no  longer  The  Guard 
ian.  His  secret  rebates  do  not  bind  us  indefinitely." 

"The  courts '11  have  a  word  to  say  on  that,"  declared 
the  combative  Ahrens. 

"Easy,  gentlemen!  Let's  be  friendly,"  purred  Mat 
thew  Ellison. 

"We  need  n't  go  to  the  courts,"  put  in  Andrew  Galpin. 
"In  the  cases  where  rebates  were  offered,  the  rate  will  be 
raised  to  a  point  where  it  covers  the  rebates." 

"Where  do  you  come  in?"  demanded  Ahrens. 

"  As  acting  advertising  manager  of  The  Guardian." 

"What  becomes  of  your  'one-rate-for-all'  claim?" 
Turnbull  turned  upon  Jeremy. 

"Discarded,"  said  the  owner,  promptly  accepting  Gal- 
pin's  strategy. 

"Why  ain'd  I  neffer  gud  any  discound?"  inquired  Ber 
nard  Stockmuller,  the  leading  jeweler  of  the  town,  in  a 
powerful  and  plaintive  voice. 

"Because  you  never  had  the  sense  to  stick  out  for  it, 
Barney,"  retorted  Betts.  "You  were  easy." 

"There  you  have  the  unfairness  of  the  system," 
Jeremy  pointed  out.  "Mr.  Stockmuller  is  as  frequent  a 
user  of  space  as  some  of  you  who  have  taken  rebates. 
Gentlemen,  it  does  n't  go  any  more." 

"  Well,  this  is  a  hell  of  a  note !  "  murmured  a  discontented 


COMMON  CAUSE  145 

voice  which  seemed  to  emanate  from  the  depths  of  the 
abdominal  curve  of  the  senior  partner  of  Arndt  &  Nie- 
buhr,  furniture  dealers. 

"  Did  any  of  these  private  letters  from  Mr.  Wymett 
mention  reading  notices  as  an  extra  inducement?"  asked 
the  host  of  the  occasion. 

"There  was  no  need,"  stated  Ellison.  "  '  Readers '  are 
a  recognized  courtesy  to  advertisers." 

"They  take  up  space,"  Jeremy  pointed  out.  "They 
cost  money,  for  ink,  paper,  and  setting  up.  From  the 
newspaper's  viewpoint,  they're  a  dead  loss." 

"We  pay  for  'em  in  our  advertising  bills,"  said  Fried- 
land,  of  the  Big  Shop. 

"Then  you  regard  them  as  advertising?" 

"Certainly." 

"But  they  don't  appear  as  advertising.  They  are  in 
regular  news  type,  made  up  to  look  like  news  items,  and 
they  carry  no  a-d-v  mark." 

Matthew  Ellison  took  it  upon  his  kindly  self  to  en 
lighten  this  innocent  young  adventurer  in  untried  fields. 
"  If  they  appeared  as  advertising,  the  public  would  be 
less  likely  to  read  them." 

"Then  they're  a  fraud  on  the  public." 

"Fraud?  Oh,  really,  Mr.  Robson,"  deprecated  the 
merchant.  "A  —  a  harmless  —  er  —  subterfuge." 

"The  Guardian  cuts  them  out,"  announced  The  Guard 
ian's  revolutionary  proprietor.  "No  more  'readers'  ex 
cept  with  the  a-d-v  sign,  and  paid  for  at  full  rates." 

"What  are  you  trying  to  do  —  insult  us?"  growled  the 
saturnine  Mr.  Ahrens. 

"You  would  have  to  be  mighty  thin-skinned  to  find  an 
insult  in  that." 


146  COMMON  CAUSE 

"  Well,  drive  us  out  of  the  paper,  then?" 

"That  would  be  pretty  foolish  of  me,  would  n't  it?" 

"  Would  be?  It  is.  First  you  violate  an  agreement  — " 

"To  which  I  was  not  a  party." 

" —  and  then  you  try  to  raise  rates  on  us;  and  now  you 
cut  out  the  best  advertising  the  department  store  gets." 

"  As  for  raising  rates,  I  have  n't  suggested  it  except  as 
an  offset  to  rebates." 

"  Comes  to  the  same  thing,"  said  several  voices. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Jeremy  with  an  accession  of  posi- 
tiveness,  "you're  getting  the  best  advertising  rate  in  the 
State  of  Centralia  to-day.  With  practically  ten  thousand 
circulation  — " 

"Bunk!"  interjected  Turnbull. 

"Upwards  of  nine  thousand,  seven  hundred." 

"A  good  third  of  it  pads  and  graft  copies,"  put  in  Betts. 

For  the  first  time  Jeremy  was  at  a  disadvantage.  He 
glanced  quickly  at  Galpin. 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort,"  declared  that  gentleman  read- 
ily. 

"  How  much  is  your  list  padded?"  challenged  Vogt  the 
florist,  in  his  slightly  thickened  accent.  "Come  on,  now! 
On  the  level." , 

"Tell  them,  Mr.  Galpin,"  directed  Jeremy.  "Our 
cards  are  on  the  table." 

"I  don't  know.  But  it's  padded  all  right,"  confessed 
the  general  manager.  "Not  a  third.  Not  a  quarter.  But 
—  well,  enough." 

For  the  second  time  that  day  Jeremy  Robson  took  a 
snap  resolution.  "Appoint  a  committee  to  go  over  the 
books,  Mr.  Ellison,"  said  he.  "Make  your  estimate  of 
bonafide  circulation,  and  I  '11  adjust  my  rate  to  make  it  as 


COMMON  CAUSE  147 

low  per  thousand  as  any  daily  in  the  State  of  equal  size. 
Is  that  fair?" 

"Yes.  I  guess  that's  fair  enough,"  answered  the  Re 
tailers'  Association  president,  hesitantly. 

"That  don't  satisfy  me,"  asserted  Ahrens. 

"What  will,  Mr.  Ahrens?"  asked  Jeremy  politely. 

'"  Readers,'  like  the  Great  Northwestern 's  always 
had." 

"The  next  time  I  come  to  your  store  to  buy  a  necktie, 
will  you  throw  in  a  box  of  collars?" 

"  It  ain't  the  same  thing." 

"Pardon  me;  it's  precisely  the  same,  considered  as  a 
deal.  You  don't  give  people  more  than  they  pay  for. 
Why  should  you  expect  to  get  it?  All  I  ask  for  The  Guard 
ian  is  a  living  profit  on  the  plant  and  product." 

"  Wymett  made  a  living  out  of  it." 

"What  Mr.  Wymett  did  is  not  under  discussion." 

"I'll  say  this  for  it,  though,"  interjected  Galpin. 
"We're  not  going  to  make  the  kind  of  living  in  the  kind 
of  way  that  Mr.  Wymett  made  his.  Get  that,  you  men?" 

The  stir  that  this  roused  was  sufficient  evidence  of  gen 
eral  knowledge  concerning  The  Guardian's  former  man 
agement. 

"Now,  you're  talking!"  said  Betts. 

« Dot's  goot.  I  like  dot,"  added  Stockmuller. 

It  was  the  first  evidence  of  approval  that  the  new  pol 
icy  had  elicited. 

"So  much  having  been  said,"  proceeded  Jeremy:  "I'll 
tell  you  gentlemen  this.  The  Guardian  is  going  to  be  run 
straight.  If  you  ever  see  any  evidence  that  it  is  n't,  I 
want  to  know  it." 

"That's   fine,    Mr.    Robson,"   said   Ellison   warmly. 


148  COMMON  CAUSE 

"That's  the  kind  of  thing  we  want  to  hear.  We're  all  for 
that  and  will  wish  you  the  success  you  deserve.  And  now 
there's  one  more  matter  I  think  ought  to  be  taken  up 
here.  We  considered  it  at  the  last  meeting  of  the  associa 
tion,  and  this  is  as  good  a  time  and  place  as  any  to  thrash 
it  out.  Speaking  for  myself  and  associates,  Mr.  Robson, 
we'd  like  to  know  what  consideration  an  advertiser  in 
The  Guardian  may  expect  at  its  hands." 

"Consideration?"  Jeremy  said,  puzzled. 

"In  the  matter  of  news." 

Another  side-glance  at  Galpin  apprised  Jeremy  that 
this  was  at  least  as  important  as  anything  that  had  gone 
before. 

"I'm  afraid  that  I  shall  have  to  ask  you  to  explain," 
said  Jeremy. 

"I  will  give  you  an  example:  the  case  which  we  had  up 
for  discussion  at  our  last  meeting.  It  concerns  one  of  our 
members,  Mr.  Barclay,  of  Barclay  &  Bull,  shoe  dealers. 
Barclay  &  Bull  are  liberal  advertisers  in  The  Guardian, 
Mr.  Robson." 

"Yes." 

"Last  Tuesday  The  Guardian  published  a  report  of  the 
Blair  Street  Methodist  Church  meeting,  which  put  Mr. 
Barclay  in  a  quite  unfortunate  light." 

"Was  n't  our  report  accurate?" 

"  I  am  not  saying  whether  it  was  accurate  or  inaccu 
rate,"  returned  Ellison  conservatively.  "The  point  is 
that  it  was  unfortunate.  It  subjected  Mr.  Barclay  to 
criticism.  How  could  Mr.  Barclay  foresee  that  The 
Guardian,  which  his  firm  had  always  patronized,  would 
catch  up  a  hasty  and  somewhat  violent  expression  used  in 
the  heat  of  debate,  and  publish  it?" 


COMMON  CAUSE  149 

"The  meeting  was  a  public  meeting.  Why  should  n't 
we  report  it?" 

"My  dear  young  friend,  I  am  endeavoring  to  tell  you. 
Do  you  not  owe  something  to  Mr.  Barclay,  as  an  adver 
tiser?" 

"Does  Mr.  Barclay  owe  anything  to  me  because  I  buy 
my  shoes  at  his  store?" 

Mr.  Ellison's  face  shone  with  the  prognostication  of 
argumentative  triumph.  "Pree-cisely  the  point!  He 
does.  He  owes  you  courtesy  as  a  patron/  You  owe  him 
courtesy  as  a  patron.  That  article  should,  if  I  may  ex 
press  an  opinion,  have  omitted  his  name." 

"I  see.  Because  Mr.  Barclay  is  an  advertiser  in  The 
Guardian." 

"Quite  so,"  beamed  Ellison. 

"But  I'm  selling  Mr.  Barclay  advertising,  not  news." 

"The  courtesy  due  to  an  — " 

"  Pardon  me.  It 's  no  question  of  courtesy.  The  Guard 
ian  sells  its  news  to  its  readers.  It  sells  its  advertising  to 
its  advertisers.  You've  got  two  different  things  badly 
mixed." 

Mr.  Ellison  looked  crestfallen,  but  rallied  to  another 
and  more  direct  argument.  "Barclay  &  Bull  intend  with 
drawing  their  advertising  from  The  Guardian." 

"That's  their  affair,"  said  Jeremy  shortly. 

"But,  surely,  my  dear  young  friend,  it  is  equally  the 
affair  of  your  paper." 

"If  it's  a  question  of  Barclay  &  Bull  withdrawing  their 
advertising  or  The  Guardian  withdrawing  its  news  policy, 
we'll  have  to  hump  along  without  the  advertising." 

"Look  here!"  The  twitchy  eyes  of  Adolph  Ahrens  fo 
cused  themselves  angrily  on  the  host.  "S'pose  I  go  motor- 


150  COMMON  CAUSE 

ing  up  to  Bellair.  S'pose  I  get  pinched  by  a  joy  constable. 
S'pose  I  send  around  word  I  want  it  kept  out  of  the  paper. 
Don't  I  get  a  show?" 

"Not  a  show,"  declared  Jeremy  good-humoredly. 
"You're  too  prominent  a  character,  Mr.  Ahrens,  not  to 
make  good  reading." 

From  the  ventriloqual  depths  of  Mr.  Arndt  there  again 
emanated  that  gentleman's  conviction  concerning  the  in 
fernal  quality  of  the  note  of  Mr.  Robson's  conversation. 

Engel  the  grocer  saw  The  Guardian's  finish,  and  made 
no  secret  of  his  prophetic  vision. 

Aaron  Levy,  pursuing  his  trade  under  the  ambitious 
title  of  "The  Fashion,"  expressed  the  opinion  that  no 
man's  business  was  safe  in  a  town  where  such  practices 
were  permitted. 

"Und  you  maig  funny-nesses  aboud  the  Chermans, 
too,"  accused  Bernard  Stockmuller,  the  jeweler,  unex 
pectedly. 

Vogt  came  to  his  support.  "That  reporter  ought  to  be 
fired,"  he  proclaimed.  "The  one  that  wrote  the  police 
court  article  about  the  brewery  driver." 

"'Why,  there  was  no  malice  in  that,"  defended  Jeremy. 
"It  was  all  good-natured  fun." 

"It  wass  fun  at  the  Chermans,"  declared  Stockmuller. 
"Cherman  accents.  Cherman  ignorances.  What  you 
wanta  pigk  on  the  Chermans  for,  always?  " 

"We  don't,  Mr.  Stockmuller.  That's  absurd.  We'd 
print  an  Irish  dialect  story  just  as  quickly.  In  fact  we  do, 
frequently." 

"You  should  understand,"  said  Blasius  the  hatter, 
heavily,  "that  we  Germans  are  as  good  citizens  as  any 
body  else." 


COMMON  CAUSE  151 

"Granted,  but—  " 

"And  priddy  heavy  advertisers  in  The  Guardian." 
This  was  Vogt's  contribution. 

Jeremy  began  to  lose  his  temper.  ''Gentlemen,"  said 
he  sharply,  "if  you  take  over  the  job  of  running  The 
Guardian  as  you  seem  to  wish  to  do,  where  do  I  come  in?  " 

"Easy!  Friendly!"  pacified  Ellison.  "No  use  in  get 
ting  excited." 

"Thinks  he  can  run  the  town,"  growled  Ahrens. 

"There  is  much  in  Mr.  Robson's  point  of  view,"  con 
tinued  the  pourer  of  oil.  "And  I  am  sure  that  he  will  con 
cede  the  force  of  much  that  has  been  said  upon  the  other 
side.  In  any  case  I  am  sure  we  have  all  come  to  a  better 
understanding,  and  that  we  thank  Mr.  Robson  most 
appreciatively  for  his  bounteous  hospitality.  And,  now, 
gentlemen,  I  propose  that  we  —  er  —  adjourn." 

Ahrens  and  two  of  the  others  forgot  to  bid  Jeremy 
good-bye.  When  all  had  left,  the  giver  of  the  feast  turned 
to  his  lieutenant. 

"Well,  they  know  where  we  stand.  How  many  ad 
vertisers  will  it  lose  us?" 

"I  don't  know  that  it'll  lose  us  any,  right  away." 

"Ahrens,  surely." 

"Don't  believe  it.  He'll  be  afraid  to  drop  out.  He 
don't  understand  your  go-to-hell  attitude." 

"Was  I  as  bad  as  that,  Andy?" 

"  I  'm  taking  his  point  of  view.  He  don't  understand  it, 
and  probably  he  don't  believe  it.  Thinks  it's  bluff.  But 
he's  scared  and  he's  cautious.  So  he'll  stay  in  —  for  a 
while,  anyway.  What  we've  got  to  do  in  the  long  run,  is 
to  keep  'em  all  scared." 

"Going  in  for  blackmail,  Andy?"  smiled  his  boss. 


I52  COMMON  CAUSE 

"Keep  'em  scared,  by  making  the  paper  so  strong  that 
they  dassent  do  without  it." 

"That  means  more  circulation." 

"It  means  more  circulation,  a  lot  of  it,  and  pretty  darn 
quick.  That's  my  job." 

Arrived  at  the  office,  Jeremy  got  his  final  glimpse  of  the 
day  into  the  ramifications  of  advertising.  In  his  editorial 
sanctum  waited  a  mild,  self-possessed,  and  profoundly 
laconic  Chinaman. 

"Take  ad?"  inquired  he. 

"Your ad?  What  is  it?" 

"  Laundry."  He  proffered  a  neat  and  competently  pre 
pared  two-inch  single  column  "card,"  announcing  that 
Wong  Kee  stood  ready  to  perform  high-class  laundering 
for  the  discerning  public  at  reasonable  prices. 

"All  right.  Take  it  to  the  Advertising  window." 

"No  good." 

"Why  not?" 

"Turn  down." 

"Nonsense!" 

"Chinese  laundry.  Turn  down,"  asseverated  Wong 
Kee  evenly. 

"When  did  you  try?" 

"Nineteen-eight.  Nineteen-nine.  Nineteen-ten.  Nine- 
teen-eleven." 

"Every  year?  Nineteen- twelve  wins."  Jeremy  marked 
"Must.  J.  R."  on  the  copy  and  sent  the  satisfied  Celestial 
downstairs. 

On  the  following  morning,  eight  local  professional  apos 
tles  of  cleanliness,  comprising  the  Laundry  Association 
of  Fenchester,  indignantly  notified  The  Guardian  of  the 
withdrawal  of  their  patronage. 


COMMON  CAUSE  153 

"Even  the  laundrymen  want  to  edit  the  paper  for  us," 
the  disgusted  Jeremy  observed  to  Galpin.  "Well,  they 
can  stay  out  till  hell  breaks  loose  under  the  State  of  Cen- 
tralia." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  that  is  exactly  what  they  did. 


CHAPTER  II 

NO  advertising  patronage  was  lost  to  The  Guardian 
as  the  result  of  the  luncheon-conference.  But 
Jeremy  Robson's  offer  to  let  a  committee  investigate  his 
circulation  was  costly.  More  than  fifteen  per  cent  of 
The  Guardian's  list  proved  either  "phony"  or  dubious. 
Jeremy  reconstituted  his  rate  card  in  accordance  with  the 
actual  figures,  and  cut  recklessly  into  his  free  list.  Ap 
peased  by  this  practical  and  to  them  profitable  conces 
sion,  the  Retailers'  Association  abandoned  the  issue  of 
rebates.  For  the  time,  at  least,  they  accepted  the  new 
proprietor's  distasteful  decision  as  to  "readers."  The 
matter  of  "courtesies"  extended  to  advertisers  was  left 
in  abeyance.  That  was  sure  to  come  up  in  the  inevitable 
course  of  events.  The  general  status  was  that  of  a  truce, 
with  one  side  wary  and  the  other  disgruntled. 

Unsatisfactory  though  this  might  be  to  the  mercantile 
element,  it  was  more  so  to  the  newspaper.  For  The 
Guardian  simply  could  not  make  a  living  at  the  reduced 
rates.  There  was  but  one  thing  to  be  done:  increase  circu 
lation,  thereby  giving  the  paper  augmented  advertising 
value,  and  raise  the  advertising  rates  proportionately.  It 
had  been  agreed  between  the  Retailers'  Association  com 
mittee  and  Jeremy  that  in  view  of  his  reduction  of  tariff, 
there  would  be  no  opposition  to  an  increase  when  the 
circulation  should  warrant  it.  Ellison  and  the  other 
committeemen  did  not  believe  that  The  Guardian  could 
add  to  its  circulation  materially.  Jeremy  and  his  general 
manager  did.  They  did  n't  know  just  how.  They  only 


COMMON  CAUSE  155 

knew  that  it  had  to,  or  pass  ignominiously  out  of  exist 
ence! 

So  they  took  the  customary  business-man's  gamble.  In 
the  hope  of  making  money  they  spent  money.  The  paper 
began  to  swell  out  and  look  lively  and  prosperous.  But 
Jeremy's  bank  account  evidenced  the  ravages  of  a  gallop 
ing  consumption.  And  though  the  public  talked  about 
The  Guardian  and  speculated  interestedly  upon  its  fu 
ture,  it  did  not  fall  over  itself  to  subscribe.  It  waited  to 
see  and  be  convinced.  The  public  has  that  habit. 

Meanwhile  two  able  gentlemen  with  no  ostensible  in 
terest  in  journalism  were  quietly  watching  and  estimat 
ing  the  course  of  The  Guardian.  President  Montrose 
Clark,  of  the  Fenchester  Public  Utilities  Corporation,  and 
his  legal  aide-de-camp  Judge  Selden  Dana,  a  pair  far 
more  potent  in  Fenchester's  political  affairs  than  Fen 
chester 's  undiscerning  citizenry  ever  dreamed,  were  con 
cerned  with  the  newspapers  as  affecting  their  own  plans, 
and  were  specially  concerned  with  Jeremy  Robson's  news 
paper  because  they  possessed  no  reliable  data  on  young 
Mr.  Robson. 

"Do  you  know  him?"  asked  Judge  Dana. 

"No,"  replied  Montrose  Clark,  whose  interview  with 
the  "rippawtah"  of  The  Record  had  failed  to  leave  any 
memory  of  the  young  man's  name. 

"What  do  you  think  of  The  Guardian  since  he  got  it?" 

"It's  silly,"  pronounced  Mr.  Clark  loftily. 

"Silly?  Would  you  call  it  silly?" 

"  I  have  called  it  silly.  It  is  beginning  to  show  leanings 
toward  a  half-baked  radicalism." 

"Robson  is  very  young." 

"Even  socialistic  tendencies,"  pursued  the  other. 


156  COMMON  CAUSE 

"Socialism  is  anything  that  holds  up  our  programme," 
grinned  the  lawyer,  who  occasionally  permitted  himself 
the  private  luxury  of  frankness. 

The  public  utilitarian  frowned.  "Have  you  been  read 
ing  the  articles  on  tax-dodgers?" 

"  I  have." 

"What  is  the  purpose  of  them,  if  not  to  stir  up  socialis 
tic  unrest?" 

"Sensation,  I  should  say.  The  series  has  been  popular. 
When  Mr.  Average  Citizen  reads  in  his  paper  that  he  is 
being  taxed  twice  as  heavily  as  Mr.  Rich  Man  next  door, 
he 's  interested.  He  begins  to  think  the  paper  is  a  devil 
of  a  paper.  He  talks  about  it.  That  helps." 

"Suppose  The  Guardian  should  attack  Us  on  the  tax 
issue?" 

"That  also  would  be  interesting,"  remarked  Dana. 
"  But  they  won't.  Our  trail  is  too  well  covered.  It  would 
take  them  a  year  to  get  at  the  facts." 

"But  what's  the  young  fool  driving  at,  anyway,  Dana?  " 

The  lawyer  rubbed  his  long  angular  jaw,  and  the  somno 
lent  look  of  his  eyes  deepened  into  musing.  "  I  figure  he's 
making  a  bid  for  the  radical  support.  The  radicals  have 
never  had  a  show  here,  and  he  may  be  able  to  rally  them 
to  him." 

"What  do  they  amount  to,  the  radicals!  A  newspaper 
has  got  to  have  the  support  of  people  with  money." 

"That's  the  accepted  theory,"  admitted  the  lawyer. 

"What  do  you  know  of  young  Robson's  financial 
status!" 

"Quite  a  bit.   I  handled  the  sale  for  Wymett." 

"Yes;  yes.  A  good  bargain  for  Wymett.  Eh?" 

"A  stroke  of  fortune." 


COMMON  CAUSE  157 

"How  much  has  Robson  got  behind  him?" 

"Not  much.  Twenty  thousand.  Perhaps  twenty-five." 

Mr.  Clark  looked  relieved.  "I  think  we  need  have  no 
misgivings." 

"  I  'm  not  so  sure.  A  paper  with  radical  leanings  might 
find  material  in  that  transfer  ordinance  of  ours  when  it 
comes  up  again.  Even  some  of  our  good  friends  balk  at 
that  as  pretty  raw." 

"An  essential  step  to  our  expansion,  Dana,"  said  the 
public  utilitarian  blandly. 

"Exactly.  But  an  uncharitable  mind  mightn't  see  it 
that  way.  Which  reminds  me:  Embree  is  threatening  a 
legislative  investigation  if  the  ordinance  goes  through." 

"Local  matters  are  no  affair  of  Embree's,"  declared  the 
other  angrily.  "Fortunately  he  has  no  newspaper  back 
ing." 

"Has  n't  he?  I  wish  I  were  sure." 

"You  don't  think  that  young  Robson  has  sold  out 
to  Embree  already?" 

"No." 

"Very  well,  then—  " 

"Not  sold  out.  It  is  n't  a  question  of  cash.  This  boy 
is  n't  A.  M.  Wymett." 

"Nevertheless  a  newspaper  is  a  business  proposition," 
opined  Montrose  Clark  dryly. 

"  It  ought  to  be.  Much  simpler  if  it  were.  But  this  boy 
is  a  bit  of  a  sentimentalist.  I  'm  afraid  he's  in  the  way  of 
being  influenced  by  Smiling  Mart's  line  of  clap-trap." 

"Then  we  must  act  promptly."  The  public  utilitarian 
sat,  thoughtful.  "We'll  start  a  campaign  of  public  edu 
cation  on  the  transfer  question,  through  the  newspapers," 
he  decided.  "Including,  of  course,  The  Guardian." 


158  COMMON  CAUSE 

"Straight-out,  a-d-v  kind  of  advertising?" 

"Hardly.  The  usual  thing.  Well-prepared  articles.  Per 
haps  a  careful  editorial  or  two.  Do  you  think  it  too  early?  " 

"Not  too  early.  Too  late  for  The  Guardian.  It  won't 
take  'em." 

"Oh,  I  think  it  will,"  returned  the  other  comfortably. 
"At  our  special  rate." 

"Not  at  any  price,  the  editorials.  The  'readers,'  yes. 
But  they'll  have  the  'a-d-v'  sign  at  the  bottom.  Maybe 
the  <P.-U.'  trade-mark  also." 

Montrose  Clark's  face  puffed  red.  "Where  do  you  get 
your  information?" 

"From  inside,"  answered  Dana,  whose  special  virtue 
and  value  was  to  be  "inside"  on  all  available  sources  of 
information.  "Those  are  the  new  orders." 

"Robson's?" 

"  I  suppose  so.  Andrew  Galpin  may  have  a  hand  in  it. 
He's  in  general  charge." 

"I  think  I  can  persuade  those  young  gentlemen,"  re 
marked  Montrose  Clark  sardonically,  "that  it  is  not  to 
their  interest  to  impose  troublesome  restrictions  upon  the 
corporation." 

He  pressed  a  button.  There  arrived  upon  the  scene, 
with  an  effect  of  automatic  response,  that  smooth,  flawless, 
noiseless,  expressionless  piece  of  human  mechanism,  Ed 
ward  Garson,  the  hand-perfected  private  secretary  who, 
besides  his  immediate  duties  about  the  great  man's  per 
son,  acted  as  go-between  in  minor  matters,  press-agent, 
and  advertising  manager  for  the  Fenchester  Public  Utili 
ties  Corporation.  Concerning  him,  Judge  Dana  had  once 
remarked  that  the  queerest  thing  about  it  was  that  it  also 
had  brains. 


COMMON  CAUSE  159 

"Garson,"  barked  Montrose  Clark,  in  the  tone  which 
he  deemed  appropriate. 

The  hand-perfected  secretary  bowed. 

"Bring  in  The  Guardian  advertising  account." 

The  secretary  bowed  again  and  disappeared.  Almost 
immediately  he  was  back,  bowing  once  more  over  a  neatly 
typed  single  sheet  of  paper. 

"What  is  our  total  expenditure  in  The  Guardian  for  the 
current  year,  up  to  date?" 

"For  display  advertising,  eleven  hundred  and  forty- 
seven  dollars,  sixty  cents.  For  reading  matter,  two  hun 
dred  and  seventy-five." 

"That  includes  editorial  matter?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  in  The  Record?" 

"Seventeen  hundred  and  twenty,  sir.  All  display.  They 
make  no  charge  for  editorials  or  readers,  you  recall,  sir." 

"True.  We  pay  them  a  higher  rate  for  display,  and  the 
editorial  support  is  —  er  — " 

"By  way  of  gratitude,"  suggested  Dana. 

"  Exactly.  Do  you  think,  Dana,  that  either  paper  is  in 
a  position  to  discard  the  P.-U.'s  support?" 

"Just  a  moment,"  said  the  lawyer.  "That  display  ad 
vertising  bill  of  The  Guardian's;  what  was  the  bill  as 
rendered?" 

Looking  to  Montrose  Clark  for  permission  and  receiv 
ing  it  in  a  nod,  the  hand-perfected  secretary  replied,  "Six 
teen  hundred  dollars." 

"Scaled  down  to  a  net  of  about  eleven  hundred  and 
fifty." 

"Yes.  With  discounts  and  rebates." 

"Wymett  fooled  Robson  worse  than  I  had  supposed. 


i6o  COMMON  CAUSE 

The  young  fool  bought  on  the  basis  of  the  book  rates. 
Discounts  and  rebates  are  going  to  be  an  unpleasant  sur 
prise  to  him." 

"All  of  which  will  make  him  the  easier  to  handle." 

''Maybe.  With  gloves." 

"  It  is  not  my  habit,"  said  the  local  potentate  austerely, 
"to  concern  myself  deeply  with  other  people's  over-sen 
sitiveness,  when  it  is  a  matter  of  business." 

"Go  easy  with  him,"  insisted  the  other.  "He's  got  a 
temper.  There's  a  kind  of  a  you-be-damned-ness  about 
him.  He's  a  little  puffed  up  with  his  new  sense  of  power, 
and  we've  got  to  allow  for  that." 

"Sense  of  power?"  The  magnate  looked  puzzled  for 
the  moment.  "Oh,  you  mean  his  paper!"  He  laughed. 
"All  right,  Dana.  I  '11  be  tactful  with  him.  But  of  course 
I  shan't  tolerate  any  nonsense." 

The  retort,  "I  doubt  if  he  will,  either,"  was  on  the  tip 
of  the  lawyer's  tongue.  He  suppressed  it.  It  would  only 
have  irritated  Montrose  Clark's  vanity  which,  under  fric 
tion,  was  prone  to  develop  prickly  heat. 

Let  him  find  out  for  himself  how  to  handle  human 
nettles  if  he  could  n't  take  cannier  men's  advice! 


CHAPTER  III 

JUDGE  DANA'S  surmise  as  to  Senator  Embree  and 
The  Guardian  partook  of  the  genius  of  prophecy. 
"  Smiling  Mart "  had  been  waiting  to  assure  himself  about 
the  new  control  of  the  paper.  Conviction  grew  within  him 
that  Jeremy  Robson  was  the  man  he  was  looking  for :  that 
the  seed  planted  with  forethought  in  the  mind  of  the  un 
important  Record  reporter  was  now  bringing  forth  harvest 
in  The  Guardian.  Embree  decided  upon  open  measures. 

Returning  from  a  hasty  luncheon  one  day,  Jeremy 
found  his  den  irradiated  by  the  famous  Embree  smile. 
He  was  glad  to  see  it.  At  the  points  of  intersection  where 
politics  and  newspaper  work  cross,  he  had  encountered 
the  leader  from  the  Northern  Tier  perhaps  half  a  dozen 
times  since  their  first  interview,  and  had  liked  him  better 
each  time,  though  their  talks  had  been  on  the  professional 
and  impersonal  order.  No  conversation  with  Martin  Em 
bree,  however,  was  ever  wholly  impersonal.  He  was  too 
intense  a  humanist  for  that.  As  the  Legislature  had  ad 
journed  for  the  summer,  Jeremy  was  surprised  to  see  Em 
bree  at  the  capital. 

" Hello,  Senator,"  he  said,  shaking  hands.  "What 
brings  you  down  here  in  all  this  heat  and  dust?'7 

"You,"  smiled  his  visitor. 

"Well,  I  apologize.  I  did  n't  do  it  purposely.  But  I  'm 
glad  to  see  you." 

"So  here  you  are,  a  real  newspaper  owner.  Congratu 
lations,  by  the  way."  Jeremy  nodded.  "Do  you  remem 
ber  a  little  talk  we  had  in  my  room,  one  night?" 


1 62  COMMON  CAUSE 

"Very  well." 

"This  is  the  next  stage  in  the  fairy-tale.  Well,  I  talked 
pretty  openly  that  evening.  As  a  rule  I  don't  give  myself 
away  in  chance  conversation." 

Harking  back,  Jeremy  failed  to  recall  that  the  rising 
politician  had  given  himself  away,  in  any  sense.  He  leaned 
back  in  his  chair  and  waited. 

"I  Ve  been  watching  your  course  with  The  Guardian," 
continued  the  Senator  earnestly.  "I  wanted  to  see  which 
way  you  were  going.  Now  I  know." 

"What  convinced  you?" 

"Your  editorial  on  the  tax-dodging  railroads.  That," 
said  Senator  Embree,  his  brilliant  smile  playing  again, 
"  was  a  soaker.  A  soaker!  I  expect  you  heard  from  that." 

"I  did." 

"Did  they  yelp?" 

"They  did." 

"Threaten?" 

"What  could  they  threaten?" 

"That's  true;  what  could  they?"  repeated  the  other 
thoughtfully.  "  They  would  n't  know  where  to  have  you. 
You  're  an  undetermined  quantity  to  them.  And  as  such 
they  don't  know  your  price.  Have  they  tried  to  find  it 
out?" 

"Not  openly  enough  to  be  caught  at  it." 

"They  Ve  been  trying  to  get  at  mine  ever  since  I  came 
to  the  Legislature  as  a  grass-green  young  kid  of  an  Assem 
blyman.  I  guess  they  '11  find  out  yours  about  the  time  they 
find  out  mine.  And,  for  a  further  guess,  the  two  prices  will 
be  about  the  same.  Eh?" 

"That  also  is  possible,"  conceded  the  editor  demurely. 

"The  Record  did  n't  spoil  you.    I  was  afraid  it  might. 


COMMON  CAUSE  163 

They're  so  slick  and  respectable  over  there!  But  as  soon 
as  you  began  to  get  your  muscle  into  The  Guardian's 
editorials,  I  saw  which  side  you  were  on.  And  the  tax 
attack  settled  it  in  my  mind  that  you  're  for  the  public  and 
against  the  corporation  grafters." 

"I'm  against  the  corporations  when  they  don't  play 
fair." 

"That's  good  enough  for  me!  They  never  do  play  fair. 
Not  in  politics." 

"I  don't  go  that  far,"  said  Jeremy. 

"You  will,"  smiled  the  other.  "  Give  you  time.  You'll 
come  to  it.  You're  with  us  and  you're  going  to  be  with 
us  stronger  and  stronger." 

"It  depends  on  who  'us'  is,  and  what  policies  are  in 
volved,"  replied  the  editor,  not  wholly  pleased  at  being 
thus  confidently  catalogued. 

"The  radicals.  The  clean,  common  voters  who  believe 
that  the  people  should  run  their  own  government  for 
themselves." 

"So  far,  all  right.   I'm  for  that." 

"I  knew  you  were.  And  here  I  am."  The  smile  now 
fairly  surcharged  the  little  office. 

"And  here  you  are.  What  can  I  do  for  you,  Senator?" 

"  Wrong,  my  boy !  Wrong  for  once.  It 's  the  other  way 
around." 

"What  can  you  do  for  me,  then?" 

The  smile  was  replaced  by  a  look  of  candor  and  earnest 
ness.  "Mr.  Robson,  you  've  got  to  increase  the  sale  of  this 
paper,  have  n't  you?" 

"Yes." 

"I  can  boost  the  circulation  of  The  Guardian  a  thou 
sand  copies.  Perhaps  fifteen  hundred." 


164  COMMON  CAUSE 

"Will  you  take  the  job  of  circulation  manager?"  asked 
Jeremy,  smiling. 

"That's  another  point.  I'll  come  to  that  later.  Now, 
there 's  no  bluff  about  this,  Robson.  I  'm  in  dead  earnest." 

"If  you  can  tell  me  how  to  put  on  circulation  without 
its  costing  all  I  've  got  — " 

"It'll  cost  you  nothing.   Absolutely  nothing." 

"Then  it  will  be  different  from  any  circulation  scheme 
I've  heard  of  yet." 

"Listen.  Up  in  the  Northern  Tier  I'm  strong.  They 
know  me.  They  believe  in  me.  If  I  pass  the  word  that  The 
Guardian  is  my  organ  — " 

"The  Guardian  is  nobody's  organ." 

"  I  understand.  The  mouthpiece  of  our  policies,  I  should 
have  said.  The  policies  and  principles  you  and  I  stand 
for,  reform  and  anti-dollar-domination.  If  I  pass  that 
word  about  The  Guardian  they  '11  take  it  like  the  Bible." 

"There  might  be  something  in  that,"  conceded  the  edi 
tor,  who  knew  the  almost  idolatrous  quality  of  Embree's 
following  in  his  own  district. 

"Make  no  mistake  about  it.  It  '11  mean  four  or  five  hun 
dred  copies  in  my  own  town,  and  it  ought  to  run  to  a  thou 
sand  more  in  the  county  outside." 

"That  won't  help  much  in  getting  local  advertising, 
here  in  Fenchester." 

"No.    But  it  will  help  out  your  foreign  advertising." 

"How  do  you  know  so  much  about  the  newspaper 
game?"  asked  the  editor,  struck  by  the  other's  use  of  the 
technical  term.  "Ever  been  in  it?" 

"I  study  everything  that  has  a  bearing  on  politics  in 
this  State.  I  could  pretty  nearly  tell  you  how  much  The 
Guardian  stands  to  lose  this  year." 


COMMON  CAUSE  165 

"Don't!'*  said  Jeremy,  with  a  wry  face. 

"Unless  you  can  raise  your  rates.  And  I'm  showing  you 
the  way.  Right  here  in  Fenchester,  as  soon  as  the  common 
people  are  satisfied  that  you  really  represent  their  inter 
ests,  subscriptions  will  flood  you." 

Suspicion  of  the  phrase  beset  Jeremy.  "I'm  not  going 
in  for  any  demagogue,  yellow  journal  stuff." 

"Nobody  wants  you  to.  Just  a  decent,  clean,  fair- 
minded,  progressive  radicalism.  If  I  can  stand  up  in  my 
next  campaign  and  say  honestly  that  there  is  a  newspaper 
at  the  State  capital,  in  the  stronghold  of  old-line  politics 
and  graft,  that  represents  what  I  stand  for,  that  newspaper 
is  going  to  boom.  And  I  'm  ready  to  do  it." 

"On  what  terms?" 

"None." 

"Just  out  of  regard  for  my  fascinating  personality?" 

Martin  Embree's  smile  appeared  again,  conciliatory, 
persuasive, earnest.  "Let's  understand  each  other,  Rob- 
son.  I  'm  convinced  that  you  're  on  the  level.  That 's  the 
first  point.  I  'm  convinced  that  you  're  honestly  a  radical, 
even  if  you're  a  mild  one.  That's  the  second.  Barring 
differences  on  minor  policies  which  are  bound  to  arise  be 
tween  independent-minded  men,  you  and  I  stand  for  the 
same  principles.  You  know  my  motivating  ambition?" 

"The  governorship,"  replied  Jeremy  innocently. 

A  furrow  of  annoyance  appeared  between  the  lofty 
brows  of  the  Senator'.  "The  ambition  of  my  life,"  he  said 
emphatically,  "  is  to  serve  the  people  of  this  State  by  de 
livering  our  government  out  of  the  clutches  of  the  corpora 
tions.  To  that  end  I  will  accept  any  office,  high  or  low, 
within  the  gift  of  the  voters." 

Oratorical  as  was  the  delivery,  there  was  a  certain  ring 


166  COMMON  CAUSE 

of  enthusiasm  which  went  far  to  convince  the  editor.  In 
the  years  to  come,  of  constant  alliance  with  Martin 
Embree,  Robson  satisfied  himself  of  the  man's  essential 
devotion  to  the  cause  which  he  had  made  his  own,  a  de 
votion  second  only  to  the  monstrous  egotism  which  sub 
ordinated  all  causes  and  all  principles  to  his  own  rodent 
ambition,  or,  rather,  merged  and  absorbed  them  in  that 
ambition. 

"Of  course;  of  course,"  apologized  the  editor.  "But 
you  do  want  to  be  Governor,  don't  you?" 

"I'm  going  to  be  Governor," was  the  positive  response. 
"Not  all  their  mone'y  can  stop  me.  This  campaign  of  mine 
for  reelection  to  the  Senate  is  really  a  preliminary  skir 
mish  for  the  bigger  thing.  I  could  be  reelected  without 
lifting  a  finger,  so  far  as  that  goes.  But  I  want  to  hammer 
home  the  State  issues.  And  if  you  and  I  hammer  at  the 
same  time,  it  is  n't  going  to  do  either  of  us  a  bit  of  harm! 
By  the  way,  you  ought  to  have  agents  on  the  ground  to 
boost  your  circulation  in  the  places  where  I  campaign. 
Who  's  your  circulation  manager?" 

"A  routine  scrub.  No  good.  I'm  shipping  him.  Do 
you  happen  to  know  of  any  one?" 

"Yes.  I've  got  the  very  man  for  you,  if  he'll  come. 
Max  Verrall,  a  live  wire  on  The  Forreston  Tribune.  He 's 
a  youngster,  but  a  hustler.  I  think  I  can  get  him  for  you." 

"I'll  take  him  on  your  say-so." 

"Now,  let  me  give  you  a  pointer  or  two  on  getting  hold 
of  the  country  districts.  We  're  streaky  on  nationalities 
out  through  this  State.  There 's  a  point  to  play  for.  Get 
after  their  feelings  for  the  home  country  with  a  tactful 
editorial  or  a  bit  of  translated  matter  now  and  then  if 
you  can  lay  your  hands  on  it.  Tickle  their  little  vanities. 


COMMON  CAUSE  167 

That 's  what  I  do  on  my  speaking  tours.  If  it 's  a  Swedish 
community,  I  tell  'em  the  Scandahoovians  are  the  back 
bone  of  the  Middle  West.  In  a  German  district  —  and  the 
State  is  thick  with  'em  —  I  boost  German  efficiency,  the 
system  to  which  the  rest  of  the  world  goes  to  school." 

"Speaking  of  Germans  and  schools,"  remarked  Robson ; 
"I  'm  told  that  they  don't  even  teach  in  English  in  some 
of  the  country  districts.  I  've  been  thinking  of  starting  a 
campaign  on  that,  one  of  these  days.  Americanization 
—  that  ought  to  be  a  good  slogan." 

"Off  it,  my  boy!"  said  the  Senator  emphatically. 
"Hara-kiri  is  cheaper.  Nobody  is  so  touchy  as  your 
German-American  on  the  subject  of  language  and  race. 
Don't  butt  into  a  stone  wall." 

"Wymett  had  a  pet  theory  that  Germany  is  getting 
ready  for  a  world-war  and  the  German-Americans  are 
already  at  their  propaganda  to  influence  this  country." 

"Bosh !  I  never  could  quite  make  out  whether  Wymett 
was  more  crazy  than  crooked,  or  vice  versa." 

"Just  the  same,  I  've  noticed  that  quite  a  little  reprint 
stuff  boosting  Germany  drifts  into  this  office.  Anecdotes 
about  the  Kaiser  and  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Print 'em!  Print 'em  all.  It '11  make  the  paper  solid 
just  where  you  most  need  support." 

"So  I  do,  some  of  'em,  on  their  merits.  It's  good  stuff 
when  fillers  are  needed.  Only,  when  the  propaganda  side 
is  too  plain,  I  can  it." 

"Get  your  mind  off  this  propaganda  notion,"  pleaded 
his  adviser.  "The  Germans  are  the  best  element  of  our 
citizenship  to-day,  and  any  man  or  institution  that  goes 
up  against  them  is  through.  Some  lunatics  are  trying  to 
make  a  political  issue  of  it.  Magnus  Laurens  is.  And 


168  COMMON  CAUSE 

they  're  talking  of  running  him  for  Governor  next  time, 
because  they  think  they  '11  need  a  respectable  figurehead 
rather  than  one  of  the  old,  discredited  gang  to  beat  me 
with.  Lord !  I  'd  ask  nothing  better  than  to  have  Laurens 
against  me,  with  his  crank  Know-Nothing  conservatism 
that  he  calls  Americanism." 

"I  liked  Mr.  Laurens,"  said  Jeremy. 

"You  won't  when  you've  fought  him  as  long  as  I  have. 
Speaking  of  Germans,  do  you  know  Emil  Bausch?" 

"Only  by  sight." 

"He's  president  of  the  Fenchester  Deutscher  Club  and 
a  mighty  good  friend  of  mine.  He  wants  to  get  in  touch 
with  you." 

"He  called  once,  but  I  was  out." 

"Bausch  is  a  little  ponderous  at  first,  but  he's  all  right 
when  you  get  used  to  his  ways.  And  he's  a  power  among 
the  Germans.  Don't  forget  that." 

"Between  you  and  Wymett  and  Eli  Wade  I'm  not 
likely  to  forget  the  Germans,"  laughed  Jeremy. 

"Wade?  Poor  chap.  That  was  an  unfortunate  thing, 
that  row  of  his.  Well,  he's  good  on  the  feet,  but  weak  in 
the  head.  Do  you  know  Milliken,  his  crony?" 

"Yes.    He  has  n't  much  use  for  you." 

"So  he  tells  me  every  time  he  sees  me.  He  considers 
me  a  slinker  because  he  says  I  'm  a  Socialist  at  heart,  but 
my  heart  is  weak.  Socialism  is  all  right  in  its  way.  It's 
a  good  vaccination,  but  a  bad  disease.  Milliken 's  working 
in  your  shop  now,  is  n't  he?" 

"Is  he?   I  did  n't  know  it." 

"Stick  to  me  and  you'll  learn  a  lot  of  things,"  smiled 
the  politician.  "Yes;  he's  assistant  to  Big  Girdnerin  the 
press-room.  There's  another  German  for  you,  Girdner, 


COMMON  CAUSE  169 

and  a  good  one.  Well,  I  '11  tell  Emil  Bausch  to  come  in 
again  to  see  you."  At  the  door  he  paused.  "  By  the  way, 
are  you  likely  to  be  interested  personally  in  politics?" 

"Office  for  myself?  No.   I  've  got  my  hands  full  now." 

"Later,  perhaps.  Well,  if  you  should  want  anything 
for  any  of  your  friends,  let  me  know.  Perhaps  I  could 
manage  it." 

"Could  you?  Locally?" 

"I  have  a  little  influence  locally,  as  a  member  of  the 
Cities  Improvement  Committee." 

"We  were  speaking  of  Eli  \Vade  a  moment  ago,"  said 
Jeremy.  "  Something  I  wrote  in  The  Record  helped  to 
get  him  out  of  a  job  he  was  very  proud  of." 

"The  Public  Schools  Board?  Yes:  I  know." 

"  It  was  tough  on  the  old  boy.  I  'd  like  to  make  that  up 
to  him.  Do  you  think  you  could  get  him  put  back?" 

"Hardly  that.  You  see,  he  got  the  Germans  stirred  up. 
He  was  out  of  place  on  the  Board,  anyway.  Education  is 
the  special  political  bent  of  the  German- Americans,  you 
know.  No;  I'm  afraid  he's  finished  there.  But  I  might 
look  around  and  see  if  there  is  n't  something  else  that 
would  be  just  as  good  for  him.  It 's  just  the  little  honor  of 
having  an  office  that  flatters  his  type  of  mind." 

"I  'd  be  mightily  obliged  if  you  could,"  said  Jeremy. 

Martin  Embree  lost  no  time  on  the  Bausch  matter. 
On  the  morrow  of  his  interview  with  Jeremy,  there 
stalked  into  the  editorial  den  of  The  Guardian,  a  tall, 
plethoric  form  buttoned  within  the  frock  coat  and  wear 
ing  the  silk  hat  of  high  ceremony.  The  form  introduced 
itself  with  a  pronounced  guttural  accent  as  President 
Bausch,  of  the  Deutscher  Club,  removed  the  hat,  unbut 
toned  the  coat,  took  from  the  breast-pocket  thereof  a 


i;o  COMMON  CAUSE 

document  formidable  with  seals  and  tape,  dandled  the 
precious  thing  reverently  in  its  hands,  and  addressed  the 
editor  with  solemnity. 

"I  have  here  somed thing  of  grade  importance  for  your 
paper." 

"Take  a  seat,"  offered  the  editor. 

The  document-bearer  complied.  "Id  is  a  ledder  from 
Prindz  Henry  to  the  Cherman  Singing  Societies  of 
America." 

"The  original?"  asked  Jeremy,  regarding  the  waxed 
and  tapered  curio  with  interest. 

"Certainly  not!  The  orichinal  is  mounted  and  framed 
in  New  York.  This  is  the  official  copy." 

"It  certainly  looks  official." 

"Id  iss  to  be  printed  on  Ventzday." 

"You  mean  that  it  is  released  for  Wednesday." 

"Id  iss  to  be  printed  on  Ventzday,"  reiterated  the 
solemn  emissary.  "It  should  appear  on  your  frondt 
page." 

Had  Mr.  Bausch  but  known  it,  this  landed  him  full 
upon  the  editor's  pet  toe:  a  toe,  moreover,  by  this  time 
angrily  sore  from  over-frequent  treadings.  It  was  no  time 
to  be  telling  the  new  proprietor  and  editor  of  that  free 
and  un trammeled  organ,  The  Guardian,  what  to  and 
what  not  to  print,  or  where  to  locate  it. 

"It  will  if  it's  worth  it,"  stated  that  gentleman  briefly. 

"Wordth?  Id  iss  most  important,"  his  visitor  assured 
him.  "I  have  also  here  the  material  from  which  could  be 
derifed  a  valuable  editorial  — " 

"I  can't  really  see  that  such  a  letter,  even  though  it  be 
news,  is  a  subject  for  editorial  comment  in  The  Guardian," 
said  Jeremy  impatiently. 


COMMON  CAUSE  171 

"Do  you  understand  whoo  this  ledder  iss  from?"  cried 
the  other.  "Prindz  Henry!  Our  Kaiser's  brother.  And 
you  tell  me — " 

"  Whose  Kaiser's  brother?  Not  mine." 

An  incredulous  and  pious  shock  passed  over  the  face 
of  Mr.  Emil  Bausch.  "Not  yours!  What  matters  you? 
The  Kaiser  of  all  goodt  Chermans."  He  contemplated  the 
young  man  with  gloomy  severity.  "If  id  was  the  Prindz 
of  Vales  I  will  bet  you  prindt  it." 

Unversed  in  the  carefully  inbred  German  hatred  and 
jealousy  of  all  things  British,  Jeremy  was  mildly  puzzled. 

"Why  so?  "he  asked. 

"  I  bet  you  are  a  Inklish-lover.  I  bet  you  are  a  Cherman- 
hater.  You  would  prindt  the  Prindz  of  Vales  ledder. 
Hein?" 

"Just  as  much  or  as  little  as  I  shall  print  of  this." 

"As  liddle?  You  will  edit  this;  Prindz  Henry's  own 
words?" 

"If  there's  too  much  of  it." 

Dumbfounded  at  the  proposed  sacrilege,  Mr.  Bausch  re 
trieved  the  precious  roll  and  held  it  ready  to  thrust  back 
into  the  pocket  of  the  frock  coat.  "All  or  nothing,"  he  said. 

"Nothing,  then." 

"  I  will  rebort  this  at  the  next  meeting  of  the  Deutscher 
Club,"  growled  the  departing  Teuton. 

"Send  us  a  copy  of  the  minutes,"  retorted  the  exas 
perated  Jem.  "Perhaps  we'll  give  you  an  editorial  on 
those." 

He  finished  his  writing  and  leaned  back  to  meditate 
upon  the  possible  results  of  this  encounter  when  a  well- 
remembered  voice  in  the  hall  spoke  his  name,  in  a  tone  of 
business-like  inquiry,  to  the  youth  on  duty  there. 


i?2  COMMON  CAUSE 

"Come  right  in,  Buddy,"  called  Jeremy. 

Buddy  Higman  entered.  He  was  dressed  with  extreme 
correctness,  even  to  the  extent  of  a  whole  and  intact  pair 
of  suspenders,  and  his  Sunday  coat  which  he  carried  gen 
teelly  over  his  arm.  Jeremy  pointed  an  accusing  finger  at 
him. 

"I  know  what  you  Ve  come  here  for." 

"Gee!"  murmured  Buddy,  impressed. 

"You've  come  to  tell  me  how  to  run  my  paper." 

"Me?  "said  Buddy. 

"Or  to  order  something  put  in." 

"What—" 

"Or  kept  out." 

"No,  sir,"  said  the  astounded  Buddy. 

"What ! !  Don't  you  know  how  to  run  my  paper  better 
than  I  do?" 

"N-n-no,  sir." 

"Then  you're  unique  in  this  town.  Come  to  my  arms. 
I  mean,  sit  down.  What's  that  you're  trying  to  get  out 
of  your  pocket?" 

"A  — a  —  a  letter,  sir." 

"Hah!   I  knew  it.   From  the  Kaiser!" 

"No,  sir.    I  don't  know  him,"  said  Buddy  nervously. 

"What  are  you  calling  me  'sir'  for?"  demanded  Jeremy, 
suspicious  at  this  unaccustomed  courtesy. 

"I  want  a  job." 

"Oh,  you  want  a  job!  Here?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"What  are  you  good  for  in  a  newspaper  office?" 

"Nothin'." 

"That's  a  fine  recommendation.  Do  you  expect  to  get 
the  job  on  the  strength  of  it?" 


COMMON  CAUSE  173 

"Yes,  sir.   No,  sir.   On  this." 

After  much  painful  struggling  the  urchin  succeeded  in 
extracting  from  his  pocket  a  note  which  he  placed  in 
Jeremy's  hands.  At  sight  of  it,  all  residue  of  raillery  died 
out  of  the  editor's  face.  Though  he  had  but  once  seen 
Marcia's  writing,  he  knew,  at  the  first  glance,  the  bold, 
frank,  delicate,  upright  characters  for  hers.  The  note 
was  undated.  He  read,  with  a  feeling  that  the  world  had 
changed  and  sweetened  about  him,  her  words. 

Dear  Jem: 

If  you  ever  can,  give  Buddy  a  chance;  some  work  that  will 
not  interfere  with  his  schooling.  I  wish  you  two  to  look  after  each 
other. 
And,  oh,  my  dear,  do  please  not  quite  altogether  forget 

MARCIA 

Jeremy  sat  in  a  long  silence.  The  boy  did  not  disturb 
it.  Finally  the  young  man  looked  up. 

"When  did  she  give  you  this,  Buddy?" 

"Before  she  went  away." 

"All  right.   You  get  the  job." 

"Thanks.  I  knew  I  would,"  said  the  urchin  confi 
dently.  "I  c'n  start  in  to-morrow."  He  watched,  sym 
pathetically,  the  other  fold  the  note  and  bestow  it  in  his 
pocket. 

"Mr.  Robson,"  he  said.  "She  said  a  queer  thing  when 
she  gimme  the  letter." 

"What  was  that?" 

"She  said  —  you  know  how  her  eyes  get  solemn  and 
big  and  —  and  kinda  light  up,  deep  inside,  when  she 
means  a  thing  hard  —  she  said,  *  Buddy,  I  shall  like  to 
think  that  you  and  he  are  looking  after  each  other.'  WTiat 
did  she  mean  by  that?" 


174  COMMON  CAUSE 

"I  don't  know.   I'll  have  to  think  it  over." 

"Well,  I  been  thinkin'  it  over  an'  I  don't  get  it."  He 
paused.  Then  with  the  self-centered  simplicity  of  boy 
hood,  "Mr.  Robson,  I  miss  her  somethin'  fierce.  You  don't 
know  how  I  miss  her." 

"Don't  I!"  retorted  Jeremy  involuntarily,  with  a  stab 
of  pain. 

"Nobody  could,"  stated  the  other  with  conviction. 

So  Jeremy  and  Buddy  Higman  became  fellow-workers. 
Buddy's  job  was  decidedly  indeterminate.  It  did  n't 
matter.  In  taking  him  on  Jeremy  was  performing  his  first 
definite  service  to  Marcia. 

A  week  later  his  second  was  completed.  Eli  Wade  was 
appointed  a  member  of  the  Library  Board.  The  Guard 
ian  chronicled  the  appointment  more  conspicuously  than 
its  unimportance  as  news  warranted.  Jeremy  hoped  that 
in  some  manner  Marcia  would  see  or  hear  of  it. 


CHAPTER  IV 

MARTIN  EMBREE  more  than  fulfilled  his  word. 
As  if  a  royal  patent  had  been  issued  in  favor  of 
The  Guardian,  the  Senator's  zealous  partisans  of  the 
Northern  Tier  bestowed  upon  it  their  patronage.  Max 
Verrall,  who  revealed  himself  as  a  brisk  and  unfettered 
spirit  with  political  ambitions  and  a  slavish  fervency  for 
Embree,  did  the  actual  work  of  establishing  the  circula 
tion  in  the  district,  and  did  it  so  well  that  Jeremy  Robson 
had  no  misgivings  in  turning  over  to  him  the  circulation 
managership  of  the  paper. 

In  Fenchester  the  paper  held  about  even  for  a  time. 
The  new  features  which  Galpin  had  put  on  gained  readers, 
though  not  as  fast  as  he  had  hoped.  To  offset  this,  there 
had  been  some  loss  among  the  more  rabid  element  of  the 
Deutscher  Club,  Bausch  having  spread  the  report  that 
the  new  ownership  was  anti-German.  On  his  next  visit  to 
Fenchester,  to  deliver  the  formal  address  at  a  school  dedi 
cation,  Senator  Embree  reproached  Jeremy  for  his  tact 
lessness  in  handling  the  Prince  Henry  message. 

"  Don't  stick  your  fighting-jaw  out  at  me,  young  Rob- 
son,"  he  added  cheerily.  "Keep  that  for  your  enemies. 
Now  you  put  in  a  nice,  good-tempered  philosophic  little 
editorial  paragraph  on  the  'entente  cordiale'  line." 

Jeremy  began .    "I'm  da ' ' 

"No,  you 're  not,"  broke  in  the  other.  "Listen.  Here's 
the  idea."  And  he  outlined  an  editorial  so  tactful,  so  deft, 
so  diplomatic  whilst  still  independently  American  in  tone, 


1 76  COMMON  CAUSE 

that  for  sheer  pleasure  in  good  workmanship  the  editor 
agreed  to  adopt  it. 

"And  I'll  square  it  with  Bausch,"  said  Embree.  His 
smile  expanded  and  enfolded  the  other.  "  Better  come 
hear  me  speak  to-night.  I  '11  have  something  to  say  about 
The  Guardian.  Watch  the  effect  of  the  spread  of  the  gos 
pel  for  the  next  few  days." 

The  one  brief  reference  to  the  paper  in  Senator  Embree's 
address  said  little  but  implied  much.  Jeremy  was  inclined 
to  be  disappointed.  He  looked  for  no  results.  But  the 
following  day  brought  in  thirty-seven  new  subscriptions, 
with  others  trailing  in  their  wake  at  the  rate  of  a  dozen 
per  day.  Furthermore,  a  batch  of  letters  to  the  editor 
urged  upon  him  a  more  definite  political  stand,  or  in 
vited  (in  one  instance  challenged)  him  to  state  his  attitude 
regarding  Embree  and  the  new  policies  frankly.  Since  his 
taking  over  the  paper,  politics  had  been  at  slack  tide  in 
the  State.  Jeremy  had  wisely  refrained  from  committing 
himself  definitely.  All  his  instinct  was  for  independence 
of  thought  and  speech.  When  the  issues  were  cast,  The 
Guardian  would  take  its  stand.  But  he  had  reckoned 
without  that  pervasive  and  acute  political  self-conscious 
ness  of  the  Middle  West  which  expects  every  citizen  to 
be  definitely  one  thing  or  the  other,  and  be  it  promptly ! 
His  tax  editorials,  he  found,  had  already  committed  him 
in  the  general  mind  to  the  radical  side.  Whoever  attacked 
the  railroads  was  a  Friend  of  the  People.  To  be  sure, 
Jeremy's  attack  had  been  addressed  to  a  few  specific  and 
flagrant  instances;  but  the  public  does  not  discriminate 
finely.  And  Senator  Embree's  word-of-mouth  "gospel" 
had  already  premised  for  The  Guardian  a  course  which 
would  considerably  have  surprised  its  proprietor. 


COMMON  CAUSE  177 

That  keen-scented  legal  prowler,  Judge  Selden  Dana, 
became  uneasy.  Young  Robson,  he  feared,  was  getting 
deep  into  " Smiling  Mart's"  toils. 

"It's  time  we  took  a  hand,"  he  warned  Montrose 
Clark.  "  Don't  you  think  I  'd  better  see  Robson  and  have 
a  talk  with  him?" 

"I  will  do  it  myself,"  said  the  public  utilitarian.  "I 
have  had  more  experience  than  you  in  handling  news 
paper  men." 

"All  right.  But  —  easy  does  it.  Remember,  this  is  no 
A.  M.  Wymett." 

"If  it  were,  I  should  leave  it  entirely  in  your  hands," 
retorted  the  magnate. 

Judge  Dana  left,  reflecting  pungently  upon  his  em 
ployer's  capacity  for  unnecessarily  disagreeable  speeches. 

"If  he  tries  that  on  Robson  he'll  get  bumped,  or  I  miss 
my  guess,"  he  surmised,  and  found  some  satisfaction  in 
the  thought. 

Nothing,  however,  could  have  been  farther  from  the 
mind  of  President  Clark.  He  purposed  treating  the  young 
newspaper  man  kindly.  Firmly,  but  kindly.  Even  be 
nevolently.  Point  out  to  him  the  error  he  was  commit 
ting  :  show  him  that  he  was  unwittingly  an  enemy  to  civic 
interests  and  progress  which  could  best  be  left  to  those 
equipped  by  experience  and  under  Providence,  for  han 
dling  large  affairs :  indicate  to  him,  delicately,  wherein  his 
own  interests  and  those  of  his  newspaper  were  consonant 
with  the  interests  of  such  public  benefactors  as  Montrose 
Clark  and  the  P.-U.  That  was  the  way  to  handle  a  pre 
sumably  reasonable  young  fellow  with  a  property  to 
consider!  In  his  satisfied  mind,  the  public  utilitarian  out 
lined  the  course  of  the  conversation,  with  himself  (natu- 


i;8  COMMON  CAUSE 

rally)  as  converser  and  his  visitor  contributing  the  antiph- 
ony  of  grateful  assent.  Summoning  the  hand-perfected 
private  secretary,  Mr.  Clark  entrusted  to  his  reverent  care 
a  summons  for  Mr.  Jeremy  Robson. 

The  message  was  duly  transferred  to  the  'phone.  It 
found  the  editor  imparting  some  instructions  to  his  new 
office  boy  and  loyal  personal  heeler,  Burton  Higman. 
At  the  call  which  informed  him  that  the  Fenchester 
P.-U.  Corporation  office  was  on  the  'phone,  Jeremy's  mind 
reverted  to  the  interview  of  some  months  before  when 
Mr.  Montrose  Clark  had  issued  his  god-like  directions 
to  the  fuming  but  helpless  "rippawtah"  from  The  Rec 
ord,  and  an  unholy  light  shone  in  his  eye. 

"  What  is  it?  "he  asked. 

"This  is  Mr.  Garson,  Mr.  Montrose  Clark's  private 
secretary." 

"Go  ahead." 

"Mr.  Clark  wishes  to  see  you." 

"What  about?" 

"Is  that  necessary?"  queried  the  voice,  in  a  tone  of 
startled  rebuke. 

"It's  usual." 

"He  will  doubtless  explain,  himself,"  said  the  voice, 
after  a  pause. 

"All  right,"  said  Jeremy. 

"Three  o'clock  this  afternoon,"  specified  the  great 
man's  mouthpiece,  and  shut  off. 

Such  was  the  Montrose  Clark  method  with  inferiors. 
Time  and  the  wish  were  stated.  The  place  was  assumed. 
A  newspaper  man  was  a  natural  inferior  according  to  the 
Montrose  Clark  measure.  The  weak  point  of  the  theory, 
in  this  instance,  was  that  the  other  party  to  the  transac- 


COMMON  CAUSE  179 

tion  had  not  subscribed  to  it.  He  returned  to  his  writing. 
At  three-ten  the  hand-perfected  private  secretary  was  on 
the  'phone  again. 

"Mr.  Garson  speaking.   Mr.  Clark  is  waiting." 

"So  am  I." 

"I  don't  understand."   The  tone  was  incredulous. 

"Put  Mr.  Clark  on  the  'phone,"  suggested  the  editor. 
"He  may  be  quicker  of  comprehension." 

The  suggestion  was  not  adopted.  But  in  fifteen  min 
utes  the  secretary,  one  button  of  his  black  cutaway 
flagrantly  unbuttoned,  was  being  admitted  to  the  den  by 
Buddy  Higman. 

"This  is  most  extraordinary,  Mr.  Robson,"  he  pro 
tested. 

"What's  extraordinary  in  it?  Mr.  Clark  wants  to  see 
me  on  business,  I  assume?" 

"He  does." 

"This  is  my  place  of  business." 

"This  is  —  you  —  you  are  going  out  of  your  way  to 
be  offensive,"  accused  the  scandalized  visitor. 

"Not  going  out  of  my  way  at  all.  I'm  sitting  tight. 
You  might  have  noticed  that  yourself." 

"Mr.  Clark  —  that  is  to  say,  the  Public  Utilities  Cor 
poration  has  been  a  good  friend  to  The  Guardian." 

"It's  been  reciprocated  in  the  past,"  returned  Jeremy 
dryly. 

"In  the  past?  Am  I  to  understand  that  the  attitude  of 
The  Guardian  toward  the  Corporation  has  changed?" 

"  If  Mr.  Wymett  was  accustomed  to  run  around  when 
ever  Mr.  Clark  chose  to  push  a  button,  it  has.  Them  good 
old  days,"  said  Jeremy  enjoyably,  "is  gone  forever." 

"Mr.  Wymett  returned  courtesy  for  courtesies." 


i8o  COMMON  CAUSE 

"So  shall  I.  When  I  receive  the  courtesies." 

"The  advertising  patronage — " 

"Don't  talk  to  me  about  advertising,"  broke  in  the  edi 
tor.  "The  few  dollars  that  your  concern  pays  into  our 
cash  drawer  don't  entitle  Mr.  Clark  to  regard  this  paper 
as  his  errand  boy." 

Mr.  Carson's  sensitive  ear  fixed  upon  the  word  "few." 
"We  are  n't  doing  much  advertising  anywhere  just  now," 
he  explained  with  a  conciliating  purr.  "There  will  be  more 
soon.  Quite  soon,  in  fact.  But  there  were  other  ways,  you 
understand,  in  which  Mr.  Clark's  friendship  was  useful 
to  The  Guardian  —  to  Mr.  Wymett." 

"For  example?" 

"News  items.  Inside  information.  Advance  informa 
tion,  I  may  say,  on  the  stock  market,  for  instance,  amount 
ing  to  really  advantageous  opportunities." 

"I  see!" 

"Such  information  is  still  —  er  —  available." 

"I  see,  again.  Would  Mr.  Clark  confirm  the  proposi 
tion,  do  you  think?" 

The  hand-perfected  private  secretary  beamed.  His 
mission,  self -inspired,  was  prospering  famously.  "Un 
doubtedly,"  he  averred. 

"In  writing?" 

"Mr.  Clark's  word  is  — " 

"As  good  as  his  bond.  Naturally.  I  was  merely  think 
ing  of  such  a  letter  not  necessarily  as  a  guarantee  of  good 
faith,  but  for  publication." 

A  thin,  gray  veil  appeared  to  draw  itself  across  Mr. 
Garson's  countenance,  out  of  which  his  eyes  stared  with 
an  aspect  of  surprise  and  fright.  This  animal  had  claws ! 

"For  publication?"  he  gasped. 


COMMON  CAUSE  181 

"That's  it.  You  don't  think  he'd  do  it?  Well,  he's 
wise  —  to  that  extent,  anyway.  Now,  you  go  back  and 
tell  Clark  that  when  we  open  up  for  bribes  we  '11  take  cash 
—  and  publish  the  news  in  the  paper." 

"What  did  you  do  to  little  Eddie  Garson?"  asked  An 
drew  Galpin,  coming  in  a  moment  later.  "  I  just  met  him 
in  the  hall." 

Jeremy  explained. 

"You're  a  rude  thing !"  grinned  the  general  manager. 
"What's  your  idea  in  going  up  against  the  P.-U.?" 

"Partly  personal,"  confessed  Jeremy.  "That  puffy 
Clark  thing  rasps  my  nerves.  Anyway,  I  don't  like  the 
P.-U.  methods,  public  or  private,  and  I  'm  not  going  to 
stand  any  bulldozing." 

"Going  to  fight?" 

"If  it  comes  to  that." 

"Know  what  it'll  cost  us?" 

"No." 

"  More  than  a  thousand  a  year  if  they  pull  out  all  their 
regular  advertising." 

"  It 's  tough,  Andy.  But  I  don't  know  any  other  way  to 
run  a  paper." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  kickin'!  It  ain't  my  money.  I  enjoy  it. 
Maybe  he  won't  pull  out,  unless  we  go  after  him  first." 

"I'm  going  after  him,  though,  the  next  raw  deal  the 
P.-U.  tries  to  put  through." 

"Let's  pray  they'll  be  good,  then,"  said  Galpin. 

Upon  receipt  of  the  hand-perfected  private  secretary's 
report,  though  it  was  carefully  edited  to  avoid  too  unbear 
able  offense,  Mr.  Clark  waxed  exceedingly  wroth.  His 
first  intent  was  to  order  all  future  advertising  in  The 
Guardian  stopped.  Passion  always  had  the  first  word 


182  COMMON  CAUSE 

with  Montrose  Clark,  but  shrewdness  had  the  last. 
Shrewdness  said,  "Wait."  Montrose  Clark  could  be  a 
good  waiter.  He  waited. 

Jeremy  Robson  did  n't.  He  published  on  the  following 
day  an  editorial,  "  Public  Utilities  and  Public  Rights," 
stating  unequivocally  The  Guardian's  attitude,  which 
gave  deep  scandal  to  President  Clark  and  inspired  the 
darkest  misgivings  in  the  mind  of  the  diplomatic  Judge 
Dana.  The  lawyer  hurried  around  to  see  his  principal. 

"What  did  you  do  or  say  to  young  Robson?"  he  de 
manded. 

Outraged  innocence  sat  blackly  on  the  presidential 
brow.  "Nothing,"  he  declared.  "He  —  he  sent  me  an 
insulting  message.  He  refused  to  come  and  see  me.  I  '11 
smash  him." 

"Very  likely.  Meantime  he's  smashed  our  transfer 
scheme.  Or  he  will  smash  it  when  the  time  comes." 

"I  shall  go  ahead  with  it  just  the  same." 

"You'll  be  swamped.  He's  dug  up  some  tax  assess 
ment  material  on  us  that  would  n't  look  pretty  in  print 
if  he  sprung  it  now.  We'll  have  to  go  slow." 

The  President  of  the  P.-U.  swallowed  his  desire  for  im 
mediate  reprisals.  He  felt  that  his  prey  was  sure  in  the 
long  run.  No  newspaper  could  offend  consistently  the 
important  people  and  interests  of  a  community  as  The 
Guardian  was  doing,  and  continue  to  make  a  living.  That 
way  bankruptcy  lay! 

Personally,  Montrose  Clark  declared  against  this  young 
upstart  a  war  of  extermination.  He  would  eliminate  the 
noxious  creature.  He  would  make  the  town  too  hot  for 
him. 

Vast  would  have  been  his  rage  could  he  have  known 


COMMON  CAUSE  183 

that,  at  the  same  time,  the  editor  was  meditating  much 
the  same  design  concerning  himself.  War  to  the  finish,  on 
both  sides.  And  all,  in  the  first  instance,  because  of  a 
minor  affectation  expressed  in  the  pronunciation  of  the 
hybrid  word  "rippawtah."  Of  such  petty  stuff  are  hu 
man  complications  constructed,  and  thereby  the  plans  of 
the  mighty  brought  to  dust! 


CHAPTER  V 

POLITICS  as  such  had  never  greatly  interested  Jer 
emy  Robson.  The  trivial  and  blatant  insincerities 
of  party  platforms  offended  a  mind  naturally  direct  and 
sincere.  As  he  saw  the  game  played  at  the  Capitol,  it 
seemed  to  consist  mainly  in  clumsy  finesse  directed  to 
unprofitable  ends,  on  the  part  of  the  lawmakers,  back  of 
whom  sat  the  little  tin  gods  of  finance  and  commerce,  as 
players  sit  back  of  the  pieces  on  a  chessboard.  Only,  it 
dawned  upon  Jeremy,  in  this  game  it  was  the  public  that 
paid  the  stakes ;  the  public  which  Jeremy  intended  that 
The  Guardian  should  represent.  His  platform  was  "Fair 
play  all  around  and  a  chance  for  all." 

Being  of  such  mind,  he  was  naturally  sympathetic  to 
the  fervent  and  altruistic  radicalism  of  Senator  Embree. 
Almost  before  he  knew  it,  he  was  committed  to  the  broad, 
general  policies  of  a  new  faction  whose  immediate  object 
was  to  capture  the  party  machinery  and  elect  Embree 
Governor.  Farmers,  the  more  thoughtful  class  of  labor 
in  the  industrial  centers,  and  that  floating  vote  which  is 
always  restless  of  party  control,  made  up  the  bulk  of 
"Smiling  Mart's"  support.  His  newspaper  backing  was 
scanty.  In  Bellair,  the  chief  city  of  Centralia,  The  Jour 
nal  lent  its  valuable  support  to  most  of  his  measures  and 
to  his  general  policies.  A  score  of  country  journals  were 
thick-and-thin  adherents.  The  Guardian  soon  began  to 
be  classed  with  these  for  loyalty  and  with  the  Bellair 
Journal  for  weigh tiness,  in  support  of  the  new  movement. 


COMMON  CAUSE  185 

Jeremy  Robson's  spirited  editorial  attacks  upon  the 
controlled  State  administration  were  now  establishing  his 
paper  as  a  gospel  to  the  fermenting  political  elements,  and 
had  earned  the  indignant  distrust  of  those  interests  which 
base  loud  claims  to  impregnable  respectability  upon  the 
ground  of  returning  reliable  dividends  to  their  stockhold 
ers.  To  these  he  was  anathema;  a  "dangerous  radical," 
a  "  half  -Socialist,"  an  "enemy  of  American  institutions," 
a  "confessed  demagogue,"  and  the  like  impressive  and 
silly  characterizations.  The  Guardian  was  quoted,  con 
futed,  and  abused  over  the  State.  It  had  become  a  power. 

While  Jeremy  and  Andrew  Galpin  and  their  lesser 
aides  were  struggling  with  the  various  immediate  and  in 
sistent  problems  of  a  newspaper's  existence  and  suste 
nance,  and  establishing  their  organ  before  the  public  as 
genuinely  independent  in  thought  and  unhampered  in  the 
expression  of  it,  political  prestige,  which  is  not  acquired 
in  a  day  by  a  newspaper  any  more  than  by  an  individual, 
steadily  accrued  to  it.  Jeremy  Robson  had  owned  The 
Guardian  for  a  year  before  he  fully  realized  his  political 
responsibilities  in  that  what  was  said  editorially  in  his 
paper  greatly  mattered  to  some  thousands  of  earnest  and 
groping  minds.  Not  only  this.  He  himself  mattered,  in 
dividually,  as  controlling  The  Guardian.  His  visiting  list 
became  inconveniently  large.  People  took  to  dropping  in 
at  the  office  to  discuss,  advise,  approve,  or  object,  particu 
larly  visitors  from  the  outlying  districts  who  deemed  it  an 
all-sufficient  introduction  to  state  that  they  were  "friends 
of  Mart  Embree."  Whether  through  the  direct  procure 
ment  of  that  energetic  campaigner  or  otherwise,  Jeremy 
found  that  The  Guardian  was  considered  to  be  not 
only  the  representative  but  the  proprietary  organ  of  the 


1 86  COMMON  CAUSE 

new  movement.  Financially  this  was  an  important  asset. 
Nevertheless,  the  editor  disrelished  it.  Remembering 
A.  M.  Wymett's  disquisition,  he  heartily  resented  his 
newspaper's  being  regarded  as  the  horn  to  any  one's 
phonograph !  Moreover,  all  these  calls  ate  up  time.  But 
that  paid  for  itself  in  widened  acquaintance  and  a  more 
sympathetic  understanding  of  the  people  who,  after  all, 
made  up  the  Commonwealth  cf  Centralia.  He  made 
friends  readily  with  them.  They  liked  him  as  soon  as  they 
adjusted  themselves  to  the  shock  of  his  apparel  which 
they  deemed  dudish. 

The  World-War  was  still  more  than  a  year  distant,  still 
hut  the  dream  of  such  pessimistic  and  flighty  minds  as  A. 
M.  Wymett's,  when  politics  began  to  boil  again  in  Cen 
tralia,  and  in  that  steaming  stew  of  policies,  principles, 
pretenses,  ambitions,  and  chicaneries  there  simmered,  all 
unseen,  one  of  the  minor  but  far-spread  schemes  of  the 
Teutonic  war-lord's  propaganda.  It  came  to  Jeremy's 
ears  through  a  call  from  Magnus  Laurens,  already  being 
talked  of  as  opposition  candidate  to  Martin  Embree,  and 
already  the  subject  of  frank  rather  than  well-judged  com 
ment,  in  the  pages  of  The  Guardian,  as  representing  fran 
chise-holding  control  of  government.  The  water-power 
magnate  looked  squarer,  ruggeder,  more  determined  and 
formidable  even  than  on  the  occasion  when  Jeremy  had 
first  seen  him  grimly  facing  the  ridicule  of  the  German 
societies.  He  was  nearer  sixty  than  fifty  and  walked  like 
a  football  captain,  and  the  blue  eyes  under  the  severe 
brows,  as  they  met  Jeremy's,  were  alert  and  hard.  The 
editor  rose  to  greet  him,  holding  out  his  hand. 

"I  did  n't  come  here  to  shake  your  hand,"  said  Lau 
rens  quietly.  "  I  came  to  tell  you  something." 


COMMON  CAUSE  187 

Jeremy  sat  down.    "Tell  ahead,"  said  he. 

"You  Ve  been  using  my  name  too  freely  in  your  paper." 

"You're  a  public  character." 

"My  name  is  my  own.  I  'm  particular  about  it.  I  keep 
it  clean.  Your  paper  has  coupled  it  up  with  names  that 
are  n't  clean." 

"Did  I  choose  your  political  associates,  Mr.  Laurens?" 
said  Jeremy  keenly. 

11  Political  criticism  is  one  thing.  Innuendoes  of  crook 
edness  and  graft  are  another." 

"  We  '11  reach  no  common  ground  as  regards  your  water- 
power  operations.  I  'm  against  you  there.  You  're  selling  to 
the  people,  at  a  profit,  power  that  should  belong  to  them." 

"  That's  theory.  With  that  I  Ve  no  quarrel.  But  when 
your  paper  moralizes  about  franchise-grafting,  and  hints 
at  bribery,  leave  me  out  of  it." 

The  editor  reflected.  On  Martin  Embree's  representa 
tions,  he  had  assumed  Laurens's  operations  to  be  founded 
in  corruption.  But  what  proof  had  he,  after  all? 

"The  Bollard's  Falls  Charter — "  he  began  and  was 
cut  short. 

"The  records  are  open  to  you.  The  books  of  the  com 
pany  are  open  to  you.  I  '11  even  go  that  far,  if  it 's  facts 
you're  after.  Or  is  it  hush-money?" 

"Which  do  you  think?" 

The  hard,  blue  eyes  looked  at  him  with  a  more  inter 
ested  scrutiny.  Magnus  Laurens  grunted.  "Bird  of  a 
different  feather  from  Wymett,"  he  surmised  doubtfully. 

"A  little." 

"Well,  I'm  different  from  Sellers  and  Corey  and  Bel 
lows  and  that  lot.  Bear  that  in  mind.  If  you  couple  me 
up  with  them  again,  I  '11  be  back  here  for  real  trouble." 


1 88  COMMON  CAUSE 

"Coming  back  to  lick  the  editor?"  asked  Jeremy,  con 
templating  the  muscle-packed  figure  of  the  other  with  a 
smile.  "  If  so,  I  '11  lay  in  a  length  of  lead  pipe." 

"Lay  in  a  lawyer  and  a  good  one,"  advised  the  visitor 
grimly.  "For  I'll  be  after  you  for  criminal  libel.  No  fiddling 
little  damage  suits  for  me.  That 's  what  I  came  to  tell  you." 

"All  right.   I've  got  it.  Anything  else?" 

"No." 

"Then  it's  my  turn.  You  control  the  Oak  Lodge  Pulp 
Company." 

"I  have  an  interest  in  it." 

"The  Guardian  buys  its  print  paper  from  you." 

"Yes." 

"When  you  came  here  did  you  have  in  mind  any  — 
well,  exchange  of  courtesies,  editorial  for  business  con 
sideration,  in  respect  to  future  deals?" 

"I  did  not.  I  don't  do  business  that  way,"  retorted 
Magnus  Laurens  with  emphasis. 

"Did  you  think  that  perhaps  I  was  aiming  in  that  di 
rection,  with  my  comments  on  you?" 

The  magnate  changed  color  a  little.  "I  might  have 
suspected  something  of  the  sort." 

"You  were  wrong." 

"Very  well.    I  was  wrong.  Anything  else?" 

"Yes.  If  I'll  undertake  that  The  Guardian  shall  say 
nothing  more  along  the  line  which  you  find  objectionable 
without  specific  and  definite  charges  taken  from  the 
records,  will  you  acquit  me  —  that  is,  will  you  consider 
that  you've  scared  me  sufficiently?" 

Magnus  Laurens  blinked.  "I'm  not  a  fool,"  he  said 
presently.  "Scared  you?  You're  no  more  afraid  of  me 
than  I  am  of  you." 


COMMON  CAUSE  189 

"Then  you  Ve  done  better  than  scare  me.  You  Ve  con 
vinced  me  that  you  mean  what  you  say.  You  and  I  can 
fight  fair." 

"  I  '11  shake  hands  now,"  said  Laurens,  and  did.  "You  're 
all  wrong.  You  Ve  been  misled  by  that  quack,  Embree. 
But  I  suppose  a  man  can  be  wrong  and  still  be  straight." 

"Exactly  what  I'm  supposing  about  you,"  retorted 
Jeremy.  "Now,  sit  down,  Mr.  Laurens,  and  tell  me  some 
real  political  news." 

Laurens  drew  a  chair  up  opposite  the  editor.  "Do  you 
think  you'd  print  it?" 

"News  is  The  Guardian's  stock  in  trade." 

"Here's  some,  then.  A  bill  is  going  to  be  introduced 
this  fall  to  Germanize  our  public  schools  farther." 

"What's  the  substance  of  it?" 

"  Making  German  practically  compulsory  in  the  grade 
schools." 

"They'll  never  pass  it." 

"Watch  them!  What  leader  is  going  to  oppose  it?  In 
a  governorship  election  year?" 

"Who  will  introduce  it?" 

"  Some  nonentity.  It  will  have  the  most  powerful  radi 
cal  support.  You  can  guess  from  whom." 

"I  don't  guess,  professionally." 

"Then  I'll  tell  you.   Martin  Embree." 

"  I  don't  believe  it." 

"Ask  him.   My  sources  of  information  are  reliable." 

"Can  I  get  a  copy  of  the  bill?" 

"Here's  a  rough  outline  of  it.  It  is  n't  fully  decided  on 
yet,  as  to  details." 

"Who  drew  it  up?" 
1    "The  Reverend  Theo  Gunst,  Henry  Dolge,  and  Pro- 


190  COMMON  CAUSE 

fessor  Brender,  of  the  German  Department  at  Old  Central, 
on  the  basis  of  a  plan  which  Herr  Professor  Koerner  left 
when  he  was  here.  It 's  one  of  the  moves  in  the  develop 
ment  of  '  Deutschtum.'  Have  you  ever  seen  the  German 
izing  scheme  for  Centralia  gotten  up  in  the  eighties?" 

"No.   I  've  heard  there  was  such  a  thing." 

"Colonization  up  to  a  certain  point.  Then  the  estab 
lishment  of  a  Little  Germany  through  making  German 
the  official  language  of  the  schools,  the  courts,  and  the 
Legislature.  Peaceful  conquest  idea." 

"And  this  bill  is  a  revival  of  that  plan,  you  think?" 

"It  has  that  appearance.  Will  The  Guardian  support 
it?" 

"No." 

"Will  it  oppose  it?" 

"Who's  doing  this  interviewing,  you  or  me,  Mr.  Lau- 
rens?"  smiled  Jeremy. 

"Call  it  an  exchange." 

"All  right.  Yes:  we '11  oppose  it.  What  about  you?" 

"It's  well  enough  known  where  I  stand." 

"As  a  private  citizen,  yes.  But  as  candidate  for  Gov 
ernor?" 

"I  am  not  a  candidate  for  Governor." 

"  Not  formally.  But  you  're  going  to  be.  What  about 
this  German  school  bill  then?  Will  you  oppose  it?" 

"I  certainly  won't  dodge  it.  Are  you  going  to  pass  on 
this  conversation  to  'Smiling  Mart'  Embree?" 

"Not  if  it's  confidential." 

"Then  I  think  this  latter  part  is,  for  the  present.  To  be 
quite  frank,  I  don't  want  to  meet  that  issue  till  I  have  to." 

"You're  right.    It'll  probably  beat  you." 

"  Possibly.   But  if  the  issue  is  once  raised,  it  won't  die 


COMMON  CAUSE  191 

out  of  people's  minds  readily.  That's  something."  He 
paused,  then  added  casually:  "By  the  way,  our  first  meet 
ing  was  in  a  pretty  German  atmosphere.  Do  you  recall 
the  meeting  where  little  Miss  Ames  stood  up  for  the  flag? 
That  took  character." 

Jeremy's  face  became  wistful.  "Do  you  ever  hear  from 
her  —  Miss  Ames?" 

"Eh?  My  daughter  does.  Did  you  —  Why,  you  were 
the  one  that  put  her  on  the  golf  team,  were  n't  you !  I  'd 
forgotten.  You  must  be  a  good  teacher." 

"She  was  a  good  pupil.  Never  knew  when  she  was 
beaten." 

"It  didn't  happen  often  enough  for  her  to  know,  I 
guess,"  laughed  the  magnate.  "She  came  out  to  visit 
Elizabeth  and  made  a  fool  of  me  on  my  own  course.  I 
owe  you  a  grudge  for  that,  young  man !  Will  you  take  me 
out  and  show  me  some  of  the  tricks  some  time  when  I  'm 
down  here?  We  '11  talk  politics  while  we  go  around,  so  you 
can  soothe  your  conscience  for  taking  the  time  off." 

"Glad  to.  Miss  Ames  and  I  used  to  play  in  the  early 
morning,  but  I  guess  I  can  take  an  afternoon  off  when  you 
come  down.  By  the  way,  where  is  she?" 

"In  Hamburg,  I  believe.  There  was  some  hint  of  an 
engagement, —  a  relative  of  her  stepfather's,  I  believe. 
Very  advantageous  match." 

Jeremy  heard  the  reply  "Is  that  so?"  in  a  tone  of  flat 
and  polite  simulation  of  interest,  issue  upon  the  air.  It 
was  obviously  the  result  of  a  mechanical  ventriloquism 
of  his  own,  for  he  was  quite  sure  that  his  lips  had  been  for 
the  moment  incapable  of  speech.  Of  course  he  had  always 
known  that  it  must  come.  Inevitable  with  a  girl  like 
Marcia.  But  hope,  though  it  withers,  clings  hardily  to 


192  COMMON  CAUSE 

the  last  pulsing  of  secret  life  in  the  young.  Even  in  the 
heart-emptiness  of  a  long  year  of  silence  —  except  for 
the  one  note  delivered  by  Buddy  Higman  —  Jeremy  had 
cherished  a  delusion  dear  as  on  the  day  when  he  first  met 
her.  .  .  .  He  became  aware  that  Laurens  was  saying  some 
thing  to  him.  Politics  —  that  was  it.  He  had  to  fix  his 
mind  on  politics,  and  though  life  had  abruptly  become 
sterile  of  hope  and  dreams,  nevertheless  there  was  a  job 
to  do.  For  the  next  twenty  minutes,  Jeremy  passed 
through  an  ordeal  which  entitled  him  to  a  hero's  medal. 
He  forced  his  aching  mind  to  take  in  what  Laurens  was 
telling  him,  and  afterward  he  fashioned  from  it  a  skillful 
and  dispassionate  interview. 

After  Laurens 's  departure  the  editor  opened  the  drawer 
in  his  desk  which  was  always  kept  locked.  Therein  were  a 
dozen  golf  scores  —  he  was  still  very  young,  and  his  stock 
of  souvenirs  had  been  pathetically  scant  —  her  note  and 
the  little  photograph.  He  understood,  now,  why  she  had 
written  him  no  letter.  When  she  gave  him  up,  she  had 
mapped  out  her  course  for  herself.  If  she  were  not  for 
mally  betrothed  then,  she  had  determined  upon  the  step. 
And  having  determined,  she  ended  it  all,  then  and  there. 
It  was  the  honorable  way.  It  was  the  direct,  definite, 
frank  way.  It  was  the  right  way.  It  was  Marcia's  way. 

He  looked  yearningly  at  the  photograph.  Wonderful 
how  that  tiny  oblong  of  paper,  touched  with  a  few  flat 
tints  could  so  evoke  the  very  essence  and  fragrance  and 
challenging  sweetness  of  her!  She  looked  out  at  him,  all 
soft  radiance  in  the  hard  radiance  of  the  sunlight  which 
flooded  her,  and  his  fingers,  bidden  to  tear  the  likeness 
to  fragments  and  scatter  it  —  not  in  resentment  but  as  a 
sacrificial  formality  —  trembled  and  slackened.  What 


COMMON  CAUSE  193 

harm,  after  all,  in  keeping  the  picture?  It  meant  nothing 

—  and  therein  Jeremy  Robson  lied  to  his  own  soul.    It 
meant  that  he  still  clung  to  his  vision,  which  nothing  had 
blurred.    For  no  other  woman  had  so  much  as  impinged 
upon  the  outskirts  of  his  imagination.  There  was  neither 
time  nor  space  for  women  other  than  Marcia.  He  restored 
the  picture,  the  note,  the  prim  numerals  of  the  golf  scores 

—  how  vividly  he  could  see  the  full,  lithe  swing  of  the 
young  body  vivid  with  untainted  health  and  vitality  as 
her  brassie  flicked  the  ball  cleanly  from  its  turfy  lie !  — 
and  locked  the  drawer  again.  There  lay  hopes  dead  and 
ideals  still  unconquerably  alive. 

Reading  the  Laurens  interview,  conspicuously  played 
up,  on  its  merits  as  news,  Martin  Embree  felt  rise  within 
him  dark  misgivings  as  to  his  supporter.  He  was  of  that 
type  which,  in  its  self-centered  mind,  forbodes  disloyalty 
and  suspects  betrayal  in  any  divergence  of  opinion  or  pol 
icy  from  its  own  standards.  But  his  smile  was  as  brilliant 
as  usual,  perhaps  even  more  so,  when  he  next  met  Jeremy. 

"  Pretty  handsome  send-off  you  gave  Laurens." 
.    "Yes.   I  like  him.  He's  straight." 

"So 's  a  snake  —  when  it 's  dead.  I  told  you  to  look  out 
for  him." 

"I  did,"  said  the  editor  good-humoredly.  " I  don't  think 
he  fooled  me  any.  Or  even  tried  to." 

4 'He's  likely  to  be  the  man  we've  got  to  fight  for  the 
governorship." 

"We'll  fight  him,  when  the  time  comes." 

"And  meantime  you  boost  him." 

"You'll  never  understand  the  newspaper  game,  Mar 
tin.  That  was  news;  therefore  worth  printing." 


194  COMMON  CAUSE 

"I  understand  this,  my  boy;  that  you  can't  afford  to 
mix  up  with  Laurens  and  his  gang." 

"Oh,  cheer  up,  Martin!  I  don't  intend  to.  But  I  can't 
take  your  point  of  view  in  everything,  much  as  I,  appre 
ciate  what  you've  done  for  the  paper." 

Indeed,  Jeremy  had  always  given  ungrudging  acknowl 
edgment  of  Embree's  services  to  The  Guardian.  That 
first  boost  in  circulation  through  Embree's  efforts  in  the 
Northern  Tier  had  been  invaluable.  And  now,  through  his 
strength  in  local  labor  circles,  Embree  was  being  of  as 
sistance  to  Jeremy,  in  preventing  strikes,  and  allaying 
trouble  in  the  press-room.  The  center  of  disturbance  there 
was  the  white-haired,  sharp-tongued  Socialist,  Nick  Milli- 
ken.  Most  correct  in  his  attitude  toward  his  employer  in 
work  hours,  Milliken  asserted  his  independence  outside 
the  "shop"  by  invariably  addressing  him  as  "young 
feller"  and  usually  reproaching  him  for  "hanging  onto  a 
half -mile-post,  like  Mart  Embree,"  instead  of  coming  out 
fair  and  square  for  Socialism  and  the  millennium.  As 
against  him  Embree  played  the  big,  stolid  German-Amer 
ican  foreman  Girdner,  who  had  influence  among  the  men, 
and  who  was  a  political  adherent  of  the  Northern  Tier 
Senator's.  On  the  whole  the  internal  affairs  of  the  office 
were  satisfactory.  Another  connection  between  Embree 
and  The  Guardian  office  was  maintained  through  Max 
Verrall,  the  Senator's  protege,  who,  having  made  good 
as  circulation  manager,  was  now  handling  the  paper's 
advertising,  as  sub-head  of  that  department  under  the 
general  supervision  of  Andrew  Galpin. 

For  all  favors  The  Guardian  repaid  Martin  Embree  by 
its  loyal  and  effectual  political  support.  If  the  Senator's 
friends  were  not  always  acceptable  to  Jeremy's  somewhat 


COMMON  CAUSE  195 

squeamish  political  standards,  at  least  his  enemies  were 
The  Guardian's  enemies.  No  ''conspiracy  of  silence"  on 
the  part  of  the  press  opposed  him  now.  The  Guardian  paid 
so  much  heed  to  his  utterances  that  The  Record  was 
forced  to  take  them  up  as  a  matter  of  news.  Without  this 
aid,  Embree  could  not  have  been  certain  of  the  nomina 
tion  for  Governor  at  that  time.  Now  it  was  practically 
assured  to  him.  The  account  between  him  and  Jeremy 
Robson  stood  fairly  balanced  to  date. 

Jeremy  wondered  how  hard  he  would  take  the  projected 
editorial  campaign  against  the  Germanizing  of  the  public 
schools. 


CHAPTER  VI 

F  I^HAT  phenomenon  of  finance  which  has  relegated 
J_  many  a  business  man  to  a  pained  and  bewildered 
retirement,  increase  of  receipts  attended  with  a  parallel 
deficit,  had  marked  The  Guardian's  first  year  under  the 
new  control.  No  question  but  that  The  Guardian  was  a 
much  livelier,  newsier,  more  influential,  and  better  paper. 
No  question  but  that  the  public  appreciated  this.  The 
increased  and  steadily  increasing  circulation  bore  proof. 
With  reluctance  the  local  advertisers  also  accepted  the 
fact.  Rates  had  been  raised,  to  the  accompaniment  of 
loud  protests,  which  were  largely  formal,  for  the  mer 
chants  paid  the  higher  charge,  and,  in  many  cases,  in 
creased  their  advertising  appropriation.  The  Guardian 
was  recognized  as  a  good  medium.  It  was  on  the  way 
to  being  recognized  as  a  necessary  medium.  When  a 
newspaper  reaches  that  point,  its  fortune  is  made. 

But  a  newspaper  is  like  an  automobile  or  a  loaf  of  bread 
in  this  fundamental  respect,  that  it  costs  more  to  make  a 
good  than  a  bad  one.  All  the  special  features  which  An 
drew  Galpin  had  put  on,  mounted  up  into  money.  The 
staff  was  more  expensive.  The  telegraphic  service  cost 
more.  At  no  time  had  swelling  revenues  quite  overtaken 
rising  expenditures.  Galpin,  however,  who  had  origi 
nally  suggested  to  the  new  boss  A  Short  Life  and  a  Merry 
One  as  The  Guardian's  appropriate  motto,  was  now  opti 
mistic.  He  confidently  believed  the  paper  to  be  within 
measurable  distance  of  assured  success. 


COMMON  CAUSE  197 

"But  we're  pretty  near  at  the  end  of  our  rope  —  my 
rope,"  Jeremy  pointed  out. 

"Ay-ah.  There's  other  ropes  dangling  around  loose. 
Why  not  hitch  to  one?" 

"Borrow?" 

"I've  heard  of  its  being  done  in  business,"  replied  the 
general  manager  quizzically.  "  Somebody's  got  to  help  the 
banks  make  a  living." 

"How  much  do  you  think  we  need?" 

Gal  pin  juggled  with  a  pencil  and  a  sheet  of  paper. 
"Let 's  get  enough  while  we're  at  it.  Twenty  thousand 
ought  to  be  the  last  cent  we'll  ever  have  to  ask  for." 

"Can  we  get  that  much?"  asked  the  other  doubtfully. 

"On  the  security  of  the  plant?  Easy." 

Jeremy's  money  was  in  the  Fenchester  Trust  Company, 
of  which  Robert  Wanser  was  president.  No  difficulty 
whatsoever  was  made  by  him  when  Jeremy  called.  Wan 
ser  was  an  anomaly  in  national  sentiment.  The  grandson 
of  a  leader  of  the  Young  German  movement  who  had 
found  refuge  in  this  country  from  the  rigorous  repression 
of  Germany  in  '48,  the  son  of  a  major  who  fought  with 
distinction  for  the  Union  through  the  Civil  War,  he  re 
mained  impregnably  Teutonic  in  thought,  sentiment,  and 
prejudice.  He  was  a  large,  softish  man  who  suggested  in 
his  appearance  a  sleek  and  benignant  walrus.  He  sat 
back  in  his  chair  and  listened  and  puffed  and  nodded,  and 
when  the  applicant  was  through,  made  a  notation  on  a 
bit  of  paper.  The  rest  was  merely  a  matter  of  "Jeremy 
Robson"  at  the  bottom  of  a  dated  form,  and  "Do  you 
wish  to  draw  it  now  or  leave  it  on  deposit,  Mr.  Robson?" 
To  the  borrower  it  seemed  like  the  nearest  thing  to  magic 
since  his  great-aunt's  bequest. 


198  COMMON  CAUSE 

"And  how  is  the  paper  getting  on,  Mr.  Robson?" 
asked  Wanser  benevolently. 

"First-rate.  We  can  feel  it  taking  hold  harder  and 
harder  every  day." 

"Ah!"  Robert  Wanser's  "Ah"  had  just  the  faintest 
touch  of  a  medial  "c"  in  it;  just  a  hint  of  the  guttural, 
the  only  relic  left  in  his  speech  of  a  Teutonicism  which 
three  generations  had  failed  to  Americanize.  "That  must 
be  a  great  satisfaction." 

"It  is." 

"And  a  great  responsibility.  What  a  power  for  good  a 
newspaper  may  be,  even  in  a  small  community  such  as 
this!  Or  for  evil.  Or  for  evil,"  he  repeated  sorrowfully. 

Jeremy  waited. 

"It  can  radiate  enlightenment.  Or  it  can  scatter  poi 
son.  The  poison  of  class  hatred,  of  political  unrest,  of  ra 
cial  dissension."  He  sighed. 

Always  for  the  direct  method  Jeremy  asked,  "You 
think  The  Guardian  is  too  radical?" 

"A(c)h!"  said  Robert  Wanser.  "I  have  not  assumed  to 
criticize." 

"I'm  asking  for  information.  That's  the  only  way  I 
can  make  the  paper  better.  By  finding  out  what  people 
think  of  it." 

"  A(c)h,  yes !  There  is  much  to  commend  in  your  paper. 
Much!  But  it  is  not  always  quite  kindly,  is  it?  Not  quite 
kindly." 

"Probably  not.   What  have  you  got  in  mind?" 

"Nothing  in  particular,"  disclaimed  the  banker.  " I  feel 
that  in  our  complicated  system  there  is  room  for  all  classes 
of  thought,  and  that  all  of  us  who  are,  in  a  sense,  leaders 
should  set  the  example  of  a  broad  tolerance.  The  impu- 


COMMON  CAUSE  199 

tation  of  unworthy  motives,  for  example,  can  do  nothing 
but  harm.  A  community  such  as  this  should  be  a  brother 
hood,  all  working  for  the  common  good  of  the  town.  Don't 
you  agree  with  me,  Mr.  Robson?" 

To  agree  with  so  pious  a  banality  would  have  been  easy; 
was,  in  fact,  almost  a  requirement  of  politeness.  But 
Jeremy  was  wondering  what  lay  behind  all  these  words. 
"  I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "  It  sounds  all  right.  But  I  don't 
get  your  real  meaning." 

Mr.  Wanser  hastily  disclaimed  any  real  meaning,  and 
the  interview  proceeded  in  a  mist  of  steamy  generalities 
contributed  by  the  banker,  of  which  one  alone  impressed 
the  editor  as  embodying  the  kernel  of  a  thought. 

"You  may  gain  temporary  circulation  by  making  ene 
mies,  but  you  lose  support." 

"But  a  newspaper  has  got  to  take  sides  on  public  ques 
tions,"  protested  Jeremy. 

"Why  so?  Why  should  it  not  be  a  lens,  to  collect  and 
focus  facts  for  the  public's  attention?" 

"It  should,  in  the  news  columns.    But  editorially?" 

"Comment,"  said  Wanser  blandly.  "Simple,  explana 
tory,  enlightening  comment." 

"  It  won't  do  the  business.   Take  this  tax  matter  — " 

"A(c)h!  Very  unfortunate !  Very  unfortunate!"  mur 
mured  the  banker. 

"  Of  course  it's  unfortunate,"  returned  Jeremy  warmly. 
"It's  unfortunate  that  those  best  able  to  pay  taxes 
should  get  off  light  at  the  expense  of  those  less  able  to 
pay." 

"That  is  not  what  I  meant.  These  attacks  upon  prop 
erty—" 

"They're  not  attacks  on  property,  when  property  plays 


200  COMMON  CAUSE 

fair.  Would  a  simple  comment  have  brought  old  Madam 
Taylor  to  time?" 

" Perhaps.  Why  not?" 

Jeremy  rubbed  his  nose  thoughtfully.  "Perhaps  it 
would.  The  facts  were  enough  just  as  they  stood." 

Madam  Taylor,  the  daughter  of  the  dead  statesman 
who  had  founded  The  Guardian,  was  not  only  the  richest 
woman  in  Fenchester,  but  was  also  a  highly  respected  and 
considerably  feared  local  institution.  Because  of  that 
her  taxes  had  not  been  raised  in  thirty  years,  though  her 
property  had  quadrupled  in  value,  until  The  Guardian 
shocked  the  community  by  running  afoul  of  her. 

"You  might  have  so  enraged  her  that  she  would  have 
left  Fenchester  forever,"  accused  Wanser. 

"Small  loss,  then,"  returned  Jeremy  heatedly,  he  hav 
ing  been  the  victim  of  the  old  lady's  spiciest  line  of  com 
mentary,  after  publication  of  the  article. 

"A(c)h!  It  would  be  a  misfortune  to  the  town,"  said 
the  banker,  thinking,  on  his  part,  of  the  heavy  balance  in 
the  name  of  Taylor  at  his  bank. 

"Anyway,  Mr.  Wanser,"  said  Jeremy,  rising  to  go, 
"  I'm  no  neutral.  I 'm  for  or  against.  And,  in  reason,  The 
Guardian  will  be  the  same.  Maybe  I'm  wrong.  But  it's 
the  only  way  I  know.  If  it  makes  enemies,  I  'm  sorry." 

Indeed  it  had  seemed  to  the  young  editor  that  circula 
tion  for  The  Guardian  and  enmities  for  its  owner  were 
inevitable  concomitants  in  the  making.  Every  local  ques 
tion  upon  which  he  took  sides  landed  him  upon  somebody's 
tender  toes.  Much  of  the  -news  that  he  printed  —  such  as 
had  not  been  printed  for  fear  of  hurting  some  more  or 
less  influential  person's  feelings,  before  The  Guardian  es 
poused  the  policy  that  news  is  a  commodity  to  which  the 


COMMON  CAUSE  201 

public  is  entitled  by  virtue  of  its  purchase  of  the  paper  — 
exasperated  and  even  alienated  the  sympathies  of  the 
formerly  favored  elements.  But  it  did  n't  cause  them  to 
stop  buying  the  paper,  because  they  shrewdly  hoped  to 
find  equally  interesting  and  annoying  items,  later,  about 
their  friends.  Then  there  was  the  matter  of  special  consid 
eration  to  the  advertising  patrons ;  a  principle  by  which 
the  mercantile  crowd  resolutely  held,  despite  Jeremy's 
pronunciamento  at  the  luncheon.  At  least  three  fourths 
of  the  advertisers  in  town,  Jeremy  estimated,  were  fitfully 
concerned  either  in  getting  into  The  Guardian  matters 
which  didn't  belong  there,  or  in  keeping  out  matters 
which  did ;  or,  if  not  they,  themselves,  then  their  wives, 
children,  or  intimate  associates.  With  respect  to  all  these 
requests,  he  cultivated  a  determined  and  expensive  habit 
of  saying  "No."  Thereby,  if  the  paper  became  newsier 
and  scored  a  more  than  occasional  "beat"  on  its  rival, 
The  Record,  it  also  became  a  heavier  burden  to  carry,  as 
the  wrath  of  the  afflicted  gathered  stormily  about  its  head. 
Though  local  advertisers  resented  the  policy  of  the 
paper,  they  appreciated  its  value.  That  is  all  that  kept 
them  in.  Verrall,  in  his  activities  as  advertising  manager, 
was  constantly  reporting  evidences  of  a  hostile  spirit. 
Half  of  the  big  stores  in  town,  he  said,  would  knife  The 
Guardian  in  a  minute  if  they  dared.  He  represented  him 
self  as  being  obliged  to  spend  more  time  in  diplomatic 
soothings  than  he  could  well  spare  from  the  routine  of  his 
work,  and  while  advocating  the  utmost  freedom  of  criti 
cism  in  public  matters,  as  befitted  a  follower  of  Embree, 
was  mildly  deprecatory  of  what  he  termed  "Mr.  Rob- 
son's  hedgehoggishness  toward  advertisers."  Malicious 
tongues,  moreover,  had  been  at  work  among  the  Germans, 


202  COMMON  CAUSE 

who  formed  an  important  part  of  the  local  mercantile 
world,  spreading  the  report  that  The  Guardian  was  se 
cretly  anti-German.  If  Mr.  Robson  could  see  his  way 
clear  to  giving  the  German- Americans  an  editorial  pat 
on  the  back  occasionally,  it  would  aid  Verrall  consider 
ably  in  building  up  his  space.  Mr.  Robson  replied  that, 
as  it  was,  he  was  publishing  a  fair  amount  of  German 
press-stuff,  and  he  saw  no  reason  to  do  any  editorial  soft- 
vsawdering  for  Mr.  Bausch  and  his  faction. 

Foreign  advertising,  such  as  the  nationally  exploited 
automobiles,  soaps,  razors,  breakfast  foods,  and  the  like 
was  now  coming  in  in  good  volume,  a  most  encouraging 
development,  for  these  big  advertisers  exercise  a  keen  dis 
crimination  in  the  matter  of  newspaper  space,  and  their 
general  support  not  only  makes  a  paper  "  look  good  "  to 
the  technical  eye,  but  also  gives  it  a  certain  cachet  among 
lesser  concerns.  To  the  high-grade  national  businesses 
The  Guardian  had  made  special  appeal  by  expelling  from 
its  columns  the  fake  financial,  oil,  gold,  rubber,  and  real- 
estate  dollar- traps,  and  the  quack  cure-alls,  whose  neigh 
borhood  in  print  the  reputable  concerns  resent. 

To  offset  this,  the  paper  had  lost  in  volume  of  local  ad 
vertising.  Several  of  the  large  stores  had  cut  down  their 
space,  in  token  of  resentment  over  the  raise  in  rates,  and 
had  restored  it  only  gradually  and  not  to  the  full.  Barclay 
&  Bull  had  stayed  out  for  more  than  six  months.  But  this 
helped  more  than  it  hurt  The  Guardian,  for  their  business 
showed  a  marked  falling-off  and  their  being  obliged  to 
come  back  in,  rather  shamefacedly,  was  testimony  to  the 
paper's  value.  Turnbull  Brothers,  of  The  Emporium,  the 
largest  of  the  department  stores,  had,  however,  cut  off 
The  Guardian  wholly,  in  consequence  of  its  reporting  a 


COMMON  CAUSE  203 

fire  in  the  local  freight  yard,  with  the  detail  that  a  large 
consignment  to  The  Emporium  of  the  bankrupt  stock 
of  Putz  &  Lewin,  of  Chicago,  was  included  in  the  losses. 
As  the  arrival  of  this  consignment  was  coincident  with 
the  announcement  of  The  Emporium's  annual  "  Grand 
Clearance  Sale,"  the  effect  was,  as  their  advertising  man 
ager  passionately  stated  to  Jeremy,  "  derogatory  as  hell." 
He  demanded  a  retraction.  The  editor  politely  regretted 
that  facts  were  both  untractable  and  unretractable  mat 
ter  to  deal  with.  The  Turnbulls  threatened  libel.  Jeremy 
told  them  to  go  ahead  and  promised  to  print  daily  ac 
counts  of  the  proceedings.  The  Turnbulls  resorted  to  vio 
lent  names  and  called  off  their  contract  for  advertising. 
Jeremy  dismissed  them  with  his  blessing,  and  told  them 
not  to  come  back  until  they  had  learned  the  distinction 
between  advertising  and  news.  Thereupon  Verrall  be 
wailed  the  sad  fate  of  the  advertising  manager  of  a  paper 
whose  chief  was  an  irreconcilable  stiff-neck,  and  appealed 
to  Andrew  Galpin,  but  got  nothing  by  that  step  other 
than  unsympathetic  advice  to  confine  his  troubles  to  his 
own  department  lest  a  worse  thing  befall  him. 

Then  there  was  the  case  of  Aaron  Levy,  of  The  Fashion, 
who,  starting  on  the  proverbial  shoestring,  was  building  up 
a  wide  low-class  trade,  and  spreading  his  gospel  through 
the  columns  of  The  Guardian,  to  the  extent  of  occasional 
one-eighth  pages.  One  phase  of  the  Levy  trade  was  a  legal 
but  unsavory  installment  business,  the  details  of  which 
were  frequently  threshed  out  in  petty  civil  court  actions. 
One  of  these,  with  a  "human  interest"  end,  was  reported 
in  The  Guardian.  Mr.  Levy  promptly  called  on  Jeremy. 

"What  you  want  to  do?  Ruin  my  business?"  he  de 
manded. 


204  COMMON  CAUSE 

"Is  that  account  true?"  asked  Jeremy. 

"Neffer  mind  if  it 's  true.  It  didn't  have  to  get  printed." 

"  Your  business  ought  to  be  ruined,  from  what  the  Court 
thinks  of  it." 

"You  take  my  money  for  advertising  it  all  right,"  the 
protestant  pointed  out  with  justice. 

"So  we  do.  We  won't  any  more.  The  Guardian  won't 
carry  your  installment  business,  Mr.  Levy." 

"Maybe  you're  too  good  to  have  my  ads  in  your  paper 
at  all!" 

"Oh,  no.  We'll  be  glad  to  have  everything  but  that 
one  line." 

"You  can't  run  my  business  for  me,  don't  you  think 
it!"  adjured  Mr.  Levy  in  one  emphatic  breath,  and  de 
parted  with  a  righteous  conviction  of  unmerited  injury. 

The  Fashion's  one-eighth  pages  no  longer  graced  The 
Guardian.  Too  shrewdly  devoted  to  his  trade  to  stay  out 
entirely,  Mr.  Levy  confined  himself  to  terse  announce 
ments  in  the  briefest  and  cheapest  possible  space.  He  also 
helped  to  spread  the  evil  rumor  that  young  Robson  was 
"sore  on  the  business  men  of  Fenchester."  Business  men 
there  were,  however,  shrewd,  fair-minded,  and  far-seeing 
enough  to  appreciate  The  Guardian's  one-standard  policy, 
even  while  they  deprecated  what  they  regarded  as  its 
abuse  of  independence.  These  formed  a  strong  minority  of 
defenders  and  supporters.  Little  by  little  their  ranks  were 
increasing.  Andrew  Galpin's  optimism,  and  the  debt 
which  represented  it,  seemed  fairly  justified  as  the  elec 
tion  of  the  fall  of  1913  drew  near. 

Already  The  Guardian  had  far  outstripped  The  Record 
in  circulation  and  in  advertising  revenue.  The  rival 
paper  was  being  hard  pressed  to  make  a  respectable  show- 


COMMON  CAUSE  205 

ing,  and  had  adopted  a  decidedly  acidulous  tone  toward 
Jeremy  and  his  publication,  letting  no  opportunity  pass  to 
impugn  its  motives  and  jeer  at  its  principles.  Ever  ready 
for  a  fight,  Jeremy  was  for  joining  issue  on  the  editorial 
page,  but  Gal  pin's  wiser  counsel  withheld  him. 

"Nobody  cares  for  newspaper  squabbles  but  newspaper 
men,"  said  that  sage.  "  We  're  not  making  a  newspaper  for 
newspaper  men.  We  're  making  a  newspaper  for  Bill  Smith 
and  Jim  Jones  and  their  missises.  And  we  're  getting 
'em!" 

But  Jeremy  Robson  was  making  a  newspaper  to  meet 
another,  more  demanding,  more  changeful  standard 
which  was  yet  in  a  great  measure  the  same.  He  was  mak 
ing  a  newspaper  for  Jeremy  Robson ;  for  Jeremy  Robson, 
who,  with  a  surprised  and  humble  and  hungry  mind,  was 
being  educated  by  that  very  newspaper  which  he  himself 
was  making.  More  and  more  Jeremy  Robson,  editor  of 
The  Guardian,  was  identifying  himself  in  mind  and  spirit 
with  Bill  Smith  and  Jim  Jones  and  their  missises,  read 
ers  and  followers  of  The  Guardian.  Because  of  that  fel 
lowship,  because  of  the  implied  link  of  faith  and  trust 
that  had  grown  up,  impalpable,  between  them,  evidenced 
in  hundreds  of  letters  to  and  scores  of  calls  upon  *'the  edi 
tor,"  there  had  been  established  standards  to  which  The 
Guardian  was  inviolably  if  tacitly  committed.  There  were 
things  which  The  Guardian  might  not  do.  There  were 
things  which,  when  the  time  came,  it  might  not  refrain 
from  doing.  An  implicit  faith  was  pledged.  So  and  not 
otherwise  does  a  newspaper  become  an  institution. 

Yet  The  Guardian  was  Jeremy's  very  own.  He  felt  for 
it  the  proprietary  pride  and  interest  of  a  man  with  a  grow 
ing  business  and  a  growing  influence  to  wield,  and,  added 


206  COMMON  CAUSE 

to  that  the  affection  of  a  child  for  a  toy  machine  —  which 
actually  goes!  He  coddled  his  paper  and  petted  it,  and 
treated  it,  when  he  could,  to  new  and  better  equipment, 
and  awoke  one  day  to  the  unpleasant  realization  that  the 
editorials  which  he  so  enjoyed  writing,  and  the  growing, 
widening  response  to  which  constituted  his  most  satis 
factory  reward,  were  physically  a  blotch  and  a  blur  and 
an  affront  to  the  staggering  and  baffled  eye.  The  Guardian 
needed  a  new  dress  and  needed  it  badly! 

Now  the  garmenture  of  a  newspaper  is  of  a  costliness  to 
make  Paquin,  Caillot,  and  their  Parisian  congeners  of  the 
golden  needle  appear  like  unto  ragpickers,  when  the  bills 
come  in.  Jeremy  bought  The  Guardian  a  new  dress  of 
type.  It  made  a  hideous  hole,  a  chasm,  an  abyss  in  the 
loan  negotiated  from  the  Trust  Company.  But  the  paper 
became  a  festival  to  the  proud  eye  of  its  owner.  Galpin 
helped  salve  his  chief's  conscience  by  agreeing  that  they 
would  have  had  to  do  it  sooner  or  later  anyway. 

Well  advised  of  the  loan,  the  status  of  the  paper's 
finances,  and  the  new  plunge,  Montrose  Clark  and  his 
legal  satellite,  Judge  Dana,  held  consultation.  Now,  they 
decided,  was  the  providentially  appointed  time  for  trying 
out  the  transfer  ordinance  in  the  City  Council.  The  Guard 
ian,  whose  opposition  they  had  feared,  had  put  itself  in 
a  position  where  it  must  "be  good." 

"  That  young  cub,"  said  Montrose  Clark  confidently, 
*'will  have  to  come  into  line." 

"With  management.  With  careful  management/' 
amended  Judge  Dana. 

"Anyway!"  returned  the  public  utilitarian.  "He'll 
need  every  cent  he  can  get  and  when  he  sees  five  or  six 
hundred  dollars  as  his  share  of  our  advertising  campaign 


COMMON  CAUSE  207 

of  education,  with  more  to  follow,  he  '11  take  his  orders 
like  the  others.  I  '11  send  for  him  in  a  day  or  two." 

"What,  again?"  said  Judge  Dana. 

The  puffy  jowl  of  Montrose  Clark  deepened  in  color. 
"I  shall  not  tolerate  any  more  of  his  impudence,"  he  de 
clared.  "  He  will  come  when  sent  for  or  — " 

"Now,  Mr.  Clark,  this  is  a  case  for  diplomacy." 

"For  you,  you  mean,  Dana." 

"What  do  you  employ  me  for?"  soothed  the  lawyer. 
"Just  you  have  a  copy  of  the  ordinance  drawn  up.  Tell 
Garson  to  get  up  the  advertising  figures  and  give  them  to 
me.  I  '11  talk  to  young  Mr.  Robson." 

The  magnate  assented,  though  with  an  ill  grace.  "Will 
you  take  up  the  matter  of  your  candidacy  with  him  at  the 
same  time?" 

Matters  were  so  shaping  themselves  in  politics,  that 
with  the  figure  of  Martin  Embree  looming  and  the  prob 
ability  of  a  strong  radical  vote  in  the  Legislature,  the 
P.-U.  and  its  allied  traction  interests  in  the  State  deemed 
it  advisable  to  place  a  safe  representative  on  the  Court 
of  Appeals  bench,  where  much  may  be  done  by  "inter 
pretation"  to  offset  destructive  legislation.  Dana  had 
been  selected  as  the  man.  In  his  early  days  the  Judge  had 
weathered,  with  difficulty  and  not  without  damage  to  his 
reputation,  two  or  three  legal  tempests,  one  of  which  had 
all  but  caused  his  disbarment.  Had  not  Montrose  Clark, 
already  finding  him  valuable  as  a  clever  quasher  of  dam 
age  suits  in  their  early  stages,  employed  his  influence,  the 
Judge  would  have  ceased  to  ornament  the  legal  profession. 
He  had  since  gone  far  to  rehabilitate  himself  in  the  eyes  of 
the  public,  by  sticking  close  to  high-class,  quiet  (not  to  say 
secret)  corporation  work.  But  the  better  men  of  his  own 


208  COMMON  CAUSE 

profession,  while  recognizing  his  abilities,  were  still  sus 
picious  of  him,  though  not  to  the  point  where  any  protest 
was  likely  to  be  made  in  the  face  of  such  powerful  in 
terests  as  were  backing  him. 

Judge  Dana  pondered  his  patron's  question.  "That 
depends  on  how  he  takes  the  transfer  plan,"  he  replied. 

"You  gave  me  advice  about  him,"  said  Montrose  Clark 
rather  maliciously;  "  to  handle  him  with  gloves.  You  see 
how  it  came  out.  Now  I  '11  give  you  some  in  return.  Put 
the  screws  on  the  young  fool!" 

"Not  my  way.  And  not  his  description.  He's  got  a  lot 
to  learn.  I  'm  going  there  as  his  teacher.  I  would  n't  be, 
if  he  was  a  fool." 

Channels  of  communication  bring  information  (and 
even  more  misinformation)  from  many  sources  into  an 
editor's  office.  Through  one  of  these  Jeremy  had  learned 
of  the  projected  transfer  plan's  recrudescence.  Therefore 
he  was  prepared  when  Judge  Dana,  having  called  by  ap 
pointment,  stated  the  case  flatly. 

"We  want  your  support,"  he  said. 

"This  is  a  pretty  raw  deal,  Judge  Dana,"  remarked 
Jeremy. 

The  lawyer's  thin  and  solemn  face  did  not  alter  its  ex 
pression  of  bland  disinterestedness.  "Not  if  looked  at  in 
the  right  light." 

"What  is  the  right  light?" 

"The  P.-U.  needs  the  new  arrangement  in  order  to  per 
fect  its  service  to  the  public.  The  greatest  good  to  the 
greatest  number." 

"Number  One,"  suggested  Jeremy.  "Mr.  Montrose 
Clark." 

"Setting  aside  any  personal  prejudice  in  the  matter, 


COMMON  CAUSE  209 

what  have  you  against  the  Public  Utilities  Corpora 
tion?" 

"It  does  n't  play  fair.  It  is  always  begging  for  special 
privileges  and  then  establishing  them  as  rights  after  it 
has  got  them." 

The  lawyer  reflected  that  this  theory,  presented  and 
amplified  editorially  in  The  Guardian,  would  be  unpleas 
antly  difficult  to  refute. 

"After  all,  it  performs  a  public  service,"  he  pointed 
out,  a  bit  lamely. 

"The  public  could  do  it  for  itself  better  and  cheaper." 

"That's  Embreeism.   It's  Socialism." 

"Call  it  what  you  like.    It 's  common  sense." 

"Let  me  advise  you,  in  the  friendliest  spirit,  not  to 
take  up  any  such  scatter-brained  theories  in  your  paper. 
They'd  wreck  it." 

"That  may  come  later.  I'll  tell  you  this  now,  Judge. 
We  won't  support  the  transfer  plan." 

"I  never  thought  you  would,"  said  the  lawyer  calmly. 

"What's  the  idea  of  this  call,  then?" 

"To  suggest  that  you  keep  your  hands  off  and  let  us 
fight  it  out  in  Council." 

Jeremy  laughed  outright.  "You  don't  ask  me  to  hold 
the  easy  mark  while  you  go  through  his  pockets.  Only 
to  stand  by  and  not  interfere." 

Judge  Dana  grinned.  "I  don't  care  much  for  the  style 
of  your  metaphor,"  he  confessed. 

"Judge,  I'm  afraid  it's  no  go.  You  can  easily  bull 
doze  or  bribe  the  Council,  if  we  keep  our  hands  off." 

"  Fair  words,  my  boy !  Fair  words !  Has  n't  The  Guard 
ian  ever  done  any  bulldozing?" 
J'l  expect  it  has  —  in  a  good  cause."  t 


210  COMMON  CAUSE 

*  "This  is  a  good  cause.  It's  going  to  be  good  for  you 
as  well  as  us  —  and  the  public." 

"As  how?"  queried  Jeremy. 

"Our  plan  is  to  present  the  new  system  to  the  public 
through  a  series  of  advertisements.  Education,  you  un 
derstand.  The  modern  way:  through  the  press.  Would 
you  like  to  see  the  outline?" 

"Come  to  the  point.  What's  the  amount?" 

Where  the  hand-perfected  Garson  would  have  seen 
hope  in  the  question,  the  warier  lawyer  scented  danger  to 
his  plans.  Nevertheless  he  went  ahead.  "Five  hundred, 
minimum.  Perhaps  as  high  as  a  thousand,  if  the  public 
is  slow  to  learn.  Our  total  advertising  appropriation  this 
year,"  stated  Judge  Dana  with  great  deliberation,  "will 
run  to  five  thousand  dollars.  There  is  no  reason  why 
The  Guardian  should  not  get  a  half  of  it.  At  least  a 
half." 

"Did  Mr.  Clark  ever  get  the  message  that  I  sent  him 
by  Garson,  as  to  bribes?" 

"Bribes?"  The  lawyer  looked  properly  startled.  "I 
don't  know.  I  doubt  it. " 

"I  sent  word  to  Clark  that  when  I  got  ready  to  take 
bribes,  I'd  take  them  direct,  in  the  form  of  cash." 

"But  I 'm  not  offering  to  bribe  you  or  The  Guardian," 
protested  the  other.  "It's  a  matter  of  simple  business. 
We  institute  an  advertising  campaign  in  a  newspaper. 
We  don't  ask  it  to  advocate  our  measures;  to  a  finicking 
mind  that  might  seem  to  be  a  form  of  bribery.  No;  we 
only  ask  that,  having  published  our  advertising  and  ac 
cepted  us  as  customers,  the  paper  refrain  from  rendering 
the  service  we  've  paid  for  useless  or  worse  than  useless, 
by  attacking  our  arguments  editorially.  Is  n't  that  fair 


COMMON  CAUSE  211 

and  reasonable?"  pleaded  the  lawyer,  with  a  plausible 
gesture  of  laying  the  matter  out  for  equitable  judg 
ment. 

Jeremy  passed  the  argument.  "Do  you  think  Garson 
ever  delivered  my  message?" 

"  I  should  think  it  unlikely,"  returned  the  other,  taken 
slightly  aback. 

"  Afraid?" 

"  Politic." 

"The  same  thing,  usually.  Are  you  afraid  of  Montrose 
Clark?" 

The  lawyer  reddened.  "  I  came  here  as  one  gentleman 
to  another  —  " 

"With  an  offer  of  hush-money,"  broke  in  the  editor. 
"Come,  Judge;  you  and  I  are  down  to  hard-pan.  We  can 
dispense  with  bluff.  However,  if  you  don't  like  the  word 
'afraid'  —  I  don't  like  it  much,  myself,  but  that's  be 
cause  there  are  so  many  things  I  'm  trying  not  to  be  afraid 
of  —  I  '11  take  it  back.  Now ;  will  you  take  my  message 
to  Clark,  as  Garson  would  n't?" 

"No;  I  will  not." 

"Then  I'll  have  to  write  it  to  him.  Or,  I  might  print 
it  in  The  Guardian,  in  the  form  of  an  open  letter  following 
this  interview." 

"This  is  a  confidential  visit,"  cried  the  lawyer,  shocked 
clean  out  of  his  professional  calm. 

"You've  got  me  there,"  admitted  the  other.  "I've 
got  to  play  square  if  I  put  up  the  bluff,  have  n't  I,  Judge? 
Even  with  you." 

"I'm  damned  if  I  understand  you,  young  man." 

"Cheer  up.  We've  got  many  long  years  to  learn  all 
about  each  other  in." 


212  COMMON  CAUSE 

"You  think  The  Guardian  will  last?"  Dana  could  not 
resist  the  temptation  to  impart  the  dig. 

"It'll  be  remembered,  if  it  doesn't,"  promised  its 
editor.  "Won't  you  reconsider  the  matter  of  that  mes 
sage,  Judge?  You  can  tone  it  down,  you  know,  and  tem 
per  it  to  the  dignity  of  the  little  great  man,  whereas  if  I 
write  him — " 

"I'll  do  it,"  declared  Dana  suddenly.  "And  I  won't 
tone  it  down." 

"And  you  '11  enjoy  it,"  added  Jeremy  with  a  grin,  which 
met  an  unexpected  response.  The  two  men  understood 
each  other.  In  a  certain  complementary  sense  they  were 
even  sympathetic  to  each  other. 

Devastating  was  the  wrath  of  Montrose  Clark  upon 
receipt  of  Judge  Dana's  report,  wholly  unexpurgated.  He 
fumed,  first  redly,  then  purply,  as  if  some  strange  chemi 
cal  reaction  were  taking  place  inside  him ;  and  from  the 
exhalations  of  that  turmoil,  there  crystallized  a  most  un 
wise  decision.  Montrose  Clark  decided  upon  reprisals 
with  his  enemy's  own  weapon.  He  had  Garson  write 
several  personal  attacks  upon  Jeremy  Robson,  and  intimi 
dated  Farley  into  publishing  them  in  The  Record,  at 
special  advertising  rates,  a  procedure  decidedly  painful  to 
Farley's  views  of  professional  ethics  and  journalistic  fel 
lowship.  Jeremy  retorted  with  a  series  of  hasty  but  ra 
ther  brilliant  imaginary  interviews  with  one  "President 
Puff,"  which  all  but  drove  the  subject  of  them  into  an  apo 
plexy,  and  were  a  source  of  joy  to  the  ungodly,  albeit  dis 
creetly  subdued  as  to  expression,  for  the  P.-U.  head  was 
a  man  of  power  in  many  directions.  At  this  point  the 
Church  rushed  into  the  breach  in  the  person  of  the  Rever 
end  Mr.  Merserole,  Montrose  Clark's  rector,  and  the  bene- 


COMMON  CAUSE  213 

ficiary  of  a  five  thousand  dollar  gift  to  the  fund  of  the 
Nicklin  Avenue  Church  only  a  week  previous.  Both  the 
high-minded  Mr.  Clark  and  the  high-church  rector  would 
have  been  profoundly  and  quite  honestly  shocked  at  the 
suggestion  that  there  was  the  faintest  element  of  finan 
cial  influence  (in  impious  circles  called  " graft")  in  what 
followed.  But  the  reverend  gentleman  preached  an  able 
and  severe  sermon  upon  the  topic  "Poisoned  Pens,"  in 
which  a  certain  type  of  reckless,  demagogic,  passion-in 
citing,  self-seeking,  conscienceless  journalism  was  lifted 
up  to  public  reprobation  in  a  pillar  of  fiery  invective.  The 
Guardian  violated  all  precedent  by  publishing  the  live 
lier  portions  of  the  sermon  under  the  caption,  "Whom 
can  the  Reverend  Gentleman  Mean?"  and  followed  this 
up  with  a  report  on  the  Clark  contribution,  paralleled 
with  further  excerpts  from  the  more  spiritual  and  lofty 
portions  of  the  sermon,  headed  with  the  text,  "Where 
your  treasure  is,  there  will  your  heart  be  also."  The  Rev 
erend  Mr.  Merserole  was  pained  and  annoyed  for  the 
remainder  of  the  week  by  a  steady  influx  of  marked  cop 
ies  of  The  Guardian.  He  was  stimulated  to  a  holy  but 
helpless  wrath  by  the  subsequent  discovery  that  he,  the 
impeccable  pastor  of  the  fashionable  Nicklin  Avenue 
Church,  had  been  impiously  dubbed  "the  Nickle-in-the- 
Slot  rector."  This  ribaldry  he  ascribed  to  Jeremy  Rob- 
son's  unprofessional  wit,  wherein  he  was  wrong.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  it  was  a  flash  from  the  quaint  mind  of 
Eli  Wade,  the  Boot  &  Shoe  Surgeon.  But  Jeremy  had 
earned  another  implacable  enemy. 

The  Guardian  did  not  get  its  share  of  the  feoo-or-more 
educational  advertising  from  the  P.-U.  Indeed,  there  was 
no  educational  advertising.  The  transfer  issue  was  passed, 


214  COMMON  CAUSE 

for  the  time,  rather  than  venture  into  the  open  where,  as 
Judge  Dana  observed,  "The  Guardian  was  waiting  for  it 
with  a  fish-horn  and  a  brick";  and  the  P.-U.'s  legal  lights 
set  about  drafting  a  blanket  franchise  for  the  considera 
tion  of  some  future  legislature,  which  should  enable  the 
corporation  to  do  about  what  it  pleased  without  reference 
to  dubious  councils  or  pestilent  journalistic  demagogues. 


CHAPTER  VII 

CRYSTALLIZING  politics  left  but  two  figures  in  the 
field  for  the  campaign  of  1913.  That  Martin  Em- 
bree  would  carry  the  radical  banner  was  a  foregone  con 
clusion.  Magnus  Laurens  was  logically  the  man  to  op 
pose  him.  To  the  Clark- Wanser-Dana  wing  of  the  party, 
who  owned  the  then  Governor,  a  weak-kneed,  feeble- 
spirited,  oratorical  creature,  Laurens  was  distasteful.  He 
was  far  more  prone  to  give  orders  than  to  take  them.  But 
on  fundamental  issues  he  was  "right";  a  sound  conserva 
tive,  reliably  hostile  to  all  the  quasi-socialistic  theories 
threatening  the  control  of  the  State.  Moreover  his  per 
sonal  and  political  rectitude  was  beyond  suspicion.  Like 
or  dislike  him,  he  was  the  only  man  in  sight  with  a  chance 
of  beating  Embree. 

Meantime  "Deutschtum,"  that  world-wide,  subterra 
nean  propaganda  of  German  influence,  German  culture, 
German  hopes  and  ambitions  and  future  dominations 
which  had  for  a  quarter  of  a  century  established  itself  re- 
productively  as  the  ichneumon  parasite  affixes  its  eggs  to 
the  body  of  the  helpless  host  which,  later,  their  brood  will 
prey  upon  and  destroy  —  Deutschtum  was  scheming  out 
the  peaceable  and  subtle  conquest  of  Centralia  through 
capture  of  the  minds  of  the  coming  generations  of  citi 
zens.  The  Cultural  Language  Bill  was  quite  harmless  in 
appearance,  so  astutely  had  it  been  drawn.  Under  pre 
tense  of  giving  parents  of  public  school  pupils  the  right  to 
secure  for  their  children,  by  petition,  instruction  in  foreign 
languages,  it  actually  established  German  as  a  "  preferred 


216  COMMON  CAUSE 

study"  with  the  heaviest  ratio  of  credits,  and,  in  the  ad 
vanced  schools,  as  practically  a  compulsory  subject.  This 
meant  the  addition  of  some  four  to  five  hundred  teachers 
of  German  throughout  the  State,  every  one  of  whom 
would  be  a  propagandist  of  Deutschtum.  As  a  side  issue, 
the  determination  of  the  textbooks  on  European  history 
was  left  to  the  German  staff.  The  school  boards  of  the 
State  being  already  pretty  well  Teutonized,  it  was  evident 
that,  should  the  bill  pass,  history  as  taught  in  the  Cen- 
tralia  school  system  would  be  censored  agreeably  to  the 
purposes  of  His  Imperial  Majesty  Wilhelm  of  Germany. 
Originally  it  was  intended  to  present  the  measure, 
backed  by  a  formidable  list  of  names  from  the  academic 
world,  with  a  sprinkling  of  "  prominent  citizens,"  and 
push  it  quietly  through  as  a  purely  educational  and  tech 
nical  matter  into  which,  the  professionals  and  professors 
having  said  their  say  in  advocacy,  the  public  need  not 
trouble  itself  to  examine.  Leave  these  esoteric  matters  to 
the  specialists!  The  list  of  endorsers  was  prepared.  It 
was  comprehensive,  as  regards  the  colleges  and  schools, 
the  pedagogic  element  being  influenced  by  the  natural 
academic  sympathy  for  the  German  educational  system 
which  honors  scholarship  so  highly.  Prominent  citizens 
lent  their  names  as  prominent  citizens  always  will  when  a 
petition  not  affecting  their  own  pockets  (though  it  may 
affect  the  national  integrity  of  their  country)  is  presented. 
A  committee,  graced  by  the  presence  of  Emil  Bausch, 
Professor  Brender,  head  of  the  German  Department  of 
the  local  university,  Professor  Rappelje,  of  the  Economics 
Department,  Judge  Dana,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Merserole, 
Farley  of  The  Record,  and  others,  with  Robert  Wanser  as 
chairman,  made  a  formal  appearance  as  sponsors.  It  was 


COMMON  CAUSE  217 

a  solemn,  dull,  and  impressive  occasion,  and  The  Guard 
ian  representative  sent  to  report  it  almost  yawned  his 
head  off.  He  sadly  envied  his  boss  whom  he  had  met  com 
ing  out  of  the  office  juggling  two  white  and  gleaming  golf- 
balls.  He  wished  he  owned  a  paper  and  could  devote  a 
morning  to  pure  sport  whenever  so  minded ! 

The  golf-balls  did  not  indicate  unmingled  recreation 
for  the  boss  of  The  Guardian.  He  was  responding  to  a 
telephone  challenge  for  a  match  with  Magnus  Laurens. 
Since  the  agreement  in  the  editor's  den,  the  water-power 
magnate  had  made  rather  a  habit  of  dropping  in  upon 
Jeremy  when  he  came  to  Fenchester.  He  would  stretch 
his  powerful  figure  in  Jeremy's  easy-chair,  open  the 
friendly  hostilities  by  proposing  to  him  that,  since  he  be 
lieved  in  other  people's  property  being  taken  over  for  the 
public  good,  he  should  deliver  The  Guardian  to  Nick 
Milliken  and  the  real  Socialists ;  shrewdly  discuss  politics 
and  the  practitioners  thereof;  and  invariably  wind  up  on 
the  main  interest  which  the  two  men  held  in  common, 
the  Americanization  of  their  hybrid  State. 

Even  at  its  best,  Laurens 's  golf -game  was  not  redoubt 
able  to  a  player  of  Jeremy's  caliber.  On  this  particular 
morning  it  was  far  from  its  best.  Turning  to  his  opponent 
after  a  flagrant  flub  on  the  ninth  green,  the  older  man  said : 

"My  mind  isn't  on  the  game  to-day.  Let's  get  an 
early  lunch,  and  talk."  As  soon  as  they  were  seated  at 
the  table,  he  opened  up  the  subject. 

"  You  're  against  me,  of  course,  in  the  campaign." 

" Certainly.  We're  for  Embree." 

"That's  all  right.  What  I  'm  going  to  say  does  n't  con 
template  any  possibility  of  your  changing.  Have  you  read 
the  Cultural  Language  Bill?" 


218  COMMON  CAUSE 

"No.   I've  sent  a  man  up  to  cover  the  hearing." 

"Why  did  n't  you  read  it?" 

"  I  understood  it  was  n't  of  any  special  importance." 

"From  whom?  Embree?  Never  mind,"  added  Lau- 
rens,  smiling.  "You  need  n't  answer.  Remember  our  con 
versation  about  Deutschtum  in  the  schools?" 

"Yes." 

"This  is  it." 

"As  this  bill  was  explained  to  me,  it  is  n't  at  all  the 
measure  you  described  in  outline." 

"Not  on  the  surface.  They've  changed  it.  But  it's 
even  worse  in  intent." 

"You've  made  a  study  of  it?" 

"They  asked  me  to  sign  it.  I  refused." 

"Who  asked  you?" 

"  In  confidence,  Robert  Wanser." 

"Why,  he  was  one  of  the  leaders  in  the  movement  for 
your  nomination." 

"As  he  took  pains  to  remind  me." 

"Is  this  likely  to  be  made  a  political  issue?" 

"  I  don't  think  so.  Not  in  the  party  sense.  The  German 
crowd  want  to  push  the  bill  through  as  quietly  as  possible." 

"That's  natural.  Once  they  get  their  system  fastened 
on  the  schools  — " 

"It's  there  to  stay." 

"I  guess  I'll  get  back  to  the  office,  Mr.  Laurens.  I 
want  to  get  in  touch  with  our  reporter  at  the  hearing." 

Olin,  the  reporter  in  question,  abruptly  ceased  yawning 
his  head  off  upon  receipt  of  instructions  to  follow  closely 
the  representations  made  for  the  bill.  His  story,  edited 
by  Jeremy  himself  with  illuihinating  side  touches,  turned 
that  innocent-seeming  measure  inside  out  and  revealed 


COMMON  CAUSE  219 

some  interesting  phenomena  on  the  inner  side.  One  re 
mark  of  Magnus  Laurens  —  "I  got  my  first  schooling 
in  the  Corner  School-House  and  I  want  to  see  it  stay 
as  American  as  it  was  in  my  day" — stuck  in  Jeremy's 
mind.  Out  of  it  he  constructed  an  editorial  on  the  Corner 
School-House  as  the  keystone  of  Americanism,  never  for 
an  instant  foreboding  that  the  phrase  would  become  the 
catchword  of  a  bitter  campaign.  The  first  effect  of  the 
editorial  was  to  bring  Embree  around  to  the  Club  at 
dinner-time  to  find  Jeremy. 

"What  on  earth  did  you  make  that  break  for?"  cried 
the  harassed  statesman. 

"Break?  It  wasn't  a  break.  That  bill  means  more 
than  you  think." 

"  It  means  nothing  serious.  Or  it  would  n't  have,  if  you 
had  n't  made  an  issue  of  it.  Now,  the  Lord  knows  what 
we're  in  for!" 

"  An  open  discussion  is  my  guess.  That  was  the  object 
of  the  editorial." 

"Oh,  you'll  get  that!  If  that  were  all  —  or  half!" 

"We  have  n't  killed  the  bill,  have  we?"  asked  the  edi 
tor  hopefully. 

"No.  But  it  will  have  to  be  cut  and  pruned  a  good 
deal,  to  meet  arguments." 

"Will  that  hurt  your  feelings?" 

"I  care  nothing  about  the  bill.  It's  only  a  sop  to  the 
harmless  vanity  of  the  Germans.  But  you've  got  them 
down  on  you  again.  And  they  blame  me  for  it." 

" Do  they!  Why?" 

The  Senator  laughed  in  a  half -embarrassed  way.  "Well, 
you  know,  Jem,  I  'm  credited  with  having  some  influence 
with  The  Guardian.  I  wish  I  had  half  I  'm  credited  with." 


220  COMMON  CAUSE 

"  You  mean  that  you  're  supposed  to  control  the  paper's 
policies." 

"  Don't  get  disturbed  over  it.  I  can't  help  it." 

"Nor  can  I,  apparently,"  returned  the  editor,  frown 
ing.  "People  absolutely  refuse  to  believe  that  a  man  is 
responsible  for  his  own  paper  —  except  when  there 's 
something  to  kick  on." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  now  about  the  bill?" 

"  Let  it  simmer.  Take  another  shot  at  it  when  it  comes 
up  again." 

" Do  you  want  to  lose  me  the  election?" 

"  Come  out  on  the  other  side  if  you  want  to,  Martin." 

"I  am  for  the  bill." 

"Make  a  speech  and  say  so,  then.  We'll  report  you 
in  full,  and  give  you  a  leading  editorial  courteously 
regretting  that  so  brilliant  and  far-seeing  and  sturdily 
American  a  statesman  should  be  in  error  on  this  one 
point." 

An  answering  smile  came  into  Martin  Embree's  ex 
pressive  face.  "Go  a  little  light  on  the  sturdy  American 
feature." 

"But  you  are  that,  are  n't  you?" 

>   "Of  course  I  am.   Just  on  this  bill,  though,  I  don't  care 
to  ram  it  down  the  Germans'  throats." 

"You'll  never  teach  me  politics,  Mart,"  sighed  the 
other.  "I'm  too  single-barreled  and  one-ideaed." 

"One-eyed,  my  boy,  one-eyed.  Try  to  see  the  thing 
from  the  other  fellow's  point  of  view." 

"Your  point  of  view  at  present  is  that  I  've  gone  astray 
from  your  good  influence.  Is  that  it?" 

"There  are  other  influences,  Jem."  The  Senator's  smile 
was  broad  and  golden  as  a  bar  of  sunlight.  "I  hear  you 


COMMON  CAUSE  221 

were  out  at  the  swell  Country  Club  this  morning  with 
Magnus  Laurens." 

"Your  information  is  O.K." 

"Did  he  talk  to  you  about  this  bill?" 

"He  did." 

"Is  he  against  it?" 

"He  is.  Refused  to  sign  the  memorial." 

Embree's  face  grew  heavy  and  thoughtful.  " Did  he  so ! 
I  wonder  if  we  could  get  him  on  record?" 

"Magnus  Laurens  is  n't  likely  to  dodge  an  issue." 

"He 's  a  queer  associate  for  the  editor  of  The  Guardian." 

"I  pick  my  own  associates,"  retorted  Jeremy  shortly. 

"Or  let  them  pick  you.  Until  they  get  ready  to  drop 
you  again.  That 's  the  way  with  those  fellows  that  have 
got  too  much  money." 

"He  isn't  likely  to  buy  me  away,  Martin,"  replied 
Jeremy,  recovering  his  temper. 

"I'm  not  worrying."  The  Embree  smile  was  on  duty 
again.  "What  bothers  me  is  what  the  Germans  will  do  to 
you  for  to-day's  paper." 

What  the  Germans  did  to  Jeremy  Robson  was,  in  the 
terse  slang  of  the  day,  a  plenty.  The  German  press,  re 
ligious  and  lay,  attacked  The  Guardian  as  an  exponent  of 
a  narrow  and  blighting  Know-Nothingism.  One  or  two 
small  German  organizations  passed  high-sounding  resolu 
tions  of  reprehension.  There  was  a  flood  of  letters  and 
enough  "stop- the -paper"  orders  to  afflict  the  soul  of  the 
much- tried  Verrall.  The  most  definite  response  came 
from  Bernard  Stockmuller,  the  jeweler,  a  generous  ad 
vertising  patron  of  The  Guardian.  On  the  morning  follow 
ing  the  hearing  on  the  bill  he  met  Jeremy  on  the  street 
and  stopped  him. 


222  COMMON  CAUSE 

"Vot  you  got  against  the  Chermans,  Mr.  Robson?"  he 
demanded  truculently. 

"  Not  a  thing  in  the  world." 

"Emil  Bausch  told  alretty  how  you  turned  down 
Prinds  Henry's  ledder." 

"I  did  not." 

"He  says  you  are  a  Cherman-hater.  If  you  are  a  Cher- 
man-hater,"  continued  the  irate  jeweler,  overriding  the 
other's  protest,  "I  guess  a  Cherman's  money  ain't  good 
enough  for  you.  My  advertising  you  don'd  get  any  more." 

"I  don't  need  it  on  those  terms,"  replied  the  owner  of 
The  Guardian.  "And  you  may  tell  Mr.  Bausch  from  me 
that  he  lies." 

No  other  advertiser  actually  deserted  the  paper, 
though  Verrall  reported  much  ill-feeling  among  the  Ger 
man  mercantile  element.  The  sturdy  jeweler  alone  was 
enough  a  man  of  principle  to  make  his  nationalism  su 
perior  to  his  business. 

"Is  it  worth  while?"  was  the  argument  posed  by  Em- 
bree,  a  fortnight  later  when  the  bill,  in  re-amended  form, 
was  coming  up  again,  and  Jeremy  was  whetting  his  pen 
for  another  tilt  at  it.  "You've  done  the  job.  Can't  you 
drop  it  now?" 

"Have  we  done  the  job,  though?" 

"Surely.  Look  at  the  bill  now.  Practically  everything 
you  objected  to  is  out.  I  '11  guarantee  it  harmless,  myself." 

What  he  said  was  in  a  sense  true.  Practically  every 
point  made  in  The  Guardian  had  been  speciously  met  in 
the  new  draft  of  the  bill.  But,  in  essence,  it  remained  the 
same,  an  instrument  of  Deutschtum.  Jeremy  did  not 
look  at  the  amended  measure  more  than  to  give  it  a  hasty 
glance.  He  accepted  it  on  the  Honorable  Martin  Embree's 


COMMON  CAUSE  223 

word ;  and  as  he  did  so  he  was  conscious  deep  within  him 
self  that  he  was  dodging  responsibility ;  that  he  really  did 
not  want  to  know  too  much  about  the  new  form.  The 
Stockmuller  incident  had  disturbed  him,  for  he  liked  the 
little,  impetuous  jeweler.  Then,  too,  the  accusation  that 
he  could  endure  with  the  least  equanimity  was  that  of 
narrow-mindedness.  Men  whose  sound  Americanism  was 
as  trustworthy  as  their  technical  judgment  had  endorsed 
the  measure.  The  Guardian  went  off  guard.  The  bill  be 
came  a  law. 

Unforeseen  concomitants  marked  its  political  course. 
Embree,  playing  expert  politics,  so  arranged  matters  that 
Magnus  Laurens  was  challenged  repeatedly  on  the  "  Cor 
ner  School-House"  issue.  It  did  not  lie  within  Laurens's 
vigorous  and  frank  nature  to  refrain  from  declaring  any 
principle  which  he  held.  He  replied  in  speeches  which, 
slightly  and  cleverly  distorted  by  the  trained  German- 
language  press,  gave  profound  and  bitter  offense  to  the 
German- Americans,  even  the  best  of  them.  Taking  up 
the  controversy  at  the  politically  effective  moment,  Em 
bree  pushed  it,  making  the  most  of  his  adversary's  alleged 
prejudice  and  narrowness,  particularly  in  the  foreign- 
born  districts.  Long  before  the  election  it  was  evident 
that  the  school-house  slogan  alone  would  beat  Laurens. 
He  was  heavily  defeated.  That  morning's  golf  with 
Jeremy  did  it. 

In  honor,  The  Guardian  had  refrained  from  making 
use  of  the  " Corner  School-House"  issue  against  Laurens. 
Jeremy  at  least  would  not  play  the  turncoat.  He  per 
suaded  himself  that,  in  resisting  Embree 's  arguments  for 
a  strategic  change  of  base,  he  was  doing  all  that  could 
be  required  of  him.  Nevertheless,  it  was  with  an  inner 


224  COMMON  CAUSE 

qualm  that  he  met  Magnus  Laurens,  a  week  after  the  elec 
tion,  their  first  interview  since  the  golf -game. 

"Well,  Mr.  Laurens,"  he  said,  "you  made  a  good  fight 
We  can't  all  win." 

"But  some  of  us  can  stand  by  our  colors  even  if  we 
lose,"  said  the  downright  Laurens,  and  passed  on. 

"  Can't  stand  defeat,"  said  Jeremy  to  himself. 

But  the  explanation  did  not  satisfy  his  inner  self.  Deep 
down  he  was  conscious  of  his  first  surrender. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SIX  weeks  after  Martin  Embree's  triumphant  election 
to  the  governorship,  the  owner  of  The  Guardian  vis 
ited  the  Fenchester  Trust  Company  for  the  formality  of 
renewing  his  note.  He  was  referred  to  President  Robert 
Wanser.  More  walrus-like  than  ever,  the  president  of  the 
institution  looked  this  morning  as  if  he  might  have  eaten 
a  fish  that  did  n't  quite  agree  with  him.  Jeremy  stated 
his  errand.  Mr.  Wanser  ruminated. 

"Difficulties  have  arisen,"  he  presently  announced. 

"What  difficulties?"  asked  Jeremy,  startled. 

"The  Trust  Company  does  not  see  its  way  to  renewing 
your  note  at  this  time,  Mr.  Robson." 

"What's  wrong?" 

"I  have  not  said  that  anything  is  wrong.  It  is  merely  a 
matter  of  business  policy.  The  loan  is  a  heavy  one." 

"It  is  well  secured." 

"I  do  not  question  that." 

"The  paper  has  turned  the  corner.  We  are  making 
money  to-day." 

"To-day  —  you  are." 

"And  we  shall  make  more  from  now  on." 

"A(c)h!"  observed  the  banker  with  his  buried  guttural. 
"That  is  prophecy." 

"Based  on  facts  and  figures.  I  can  show  them  to 
you." 

"No  need." 

Jeremy  reflected,  with  an  unpleasant  sensation  of  being 


226  COMMON  CAUSE 

spied  upon,  that  probably  the  local  banks  knew  as  much 
of  the  financial  side  of  his  business  as  he  himself  did ;  per 
haps  more. 

"  Do  you  consider  The  Guardian  weaker  security  than 
it  was?"  he  inquired. 

"I  have  not  said  so,"  replied  the  impassive  walrus. 

"You  have  n't  said  anything.  Do  you  intend  to,  or  am 
I  wasting  my  time?" 

Jeremy  arose,  looking  at  the  financier  with  a  lively  eye. 
This  was  not  at  all  what  Wanser  desired.  He  intended  to 
read  this  young  sprig  of  journalism  an  impressive  and 
costly  lesson,  after  first  reducing  him  to  a  condition  of 
affliction  suitable  for  the  punitive  exercise.  It  annoyed 
him  to  find  that  Jeremy  did  not  reduce ;  on  the  contrary, 
that  he  was  likely  to  escape  uninstructed  in  that  disci 
pline  to  which  he,  Wanser,  was  leading  by  gradual  stages. 
Forced  to  a  shorter  cut  he  said  oracularly : 

"A  newspaper's  best  asset  is  its  friends." 

The  editor's  regard  continued  intent. 

""Its  heaviest  liability  is  enemies." 

Still  no  response  from  the  beneficiary  of  these  pearls  of 
wisdom. 

"A  newspaper  is  on  the  down-grade  when  it  makes 
unfair  and  prejudiced  attacks  upon  —  upon  any  class  of 
people." 

"Talk  plain,  Mr.  Wanser.  You  mean  the  Germans." 

The  walrus,  startled  by  this  abruptness,  began  to  bark. 
"That's  what  I  mean.  That's  exactly  what  I  mean. 
You've  got  a  grudge  against  the  Germans." 

"Not  I." 

"You  have.  It  proves  itself.  The  Germans  are  the  best 
citizens  in  the  State." 


COMMON  CAUSE  227 

Jeremy  laughed  not  quite  pleasantly.  "I  was  betting 
myself  you'd  say  that  next." 

"Say  what?  I  don't  understand  you." 

" Every  German-American  I've  ever  talked  with  tells 
me  sooner  or  later  that  the  German -Americans  are  the 
solidest  or  the  best  or  the  most  representative  citizens  in 
the  country.  If  not  the  most  modest,"  added  he  mali 
ciously. 

Like  most  retorts  inspired  by  annoyance  it  was  a  tact 
less  speech.  The  walrus  bristled.  "  You  see ! "  he  growled. 
"There's  your  prejudice." 

"No  prejudice  at  all.  The  Germans  considered  as 
people  are  all  very  well.  I  like  them  and  respect  them. 
But  there  are  other  people  in  America,  you  know, — 
Americans,  for  instance." 

"We  all  know  how  you  feel.  We  all  know  why  you 
fought  our  school  bill." 

"I  did  n't  fight  it.   I  let  up  on  it." 

"You  let  up  when  you  were  afraid  to  go  on,"  taunted 
the  other. 

Jeremy's  face  flamed.  "You're  a — "  he  began,  and 
stopped  short,  swallowing  hard.  "You're  right,"  he  said 
with  quiet  bitterness.  "  I  was  a  quitter.  It  serves  me  right 
that  you  should  be  the  second  man  to  tell  me  so." 

"You  quit  too  late."  The  walrus  was  enjoying  himself 
now. 

"Evidently.  All  right,  Mr.  Wanser.  The  note  will  be 
paid  when  due.  At  least  I'm  glad  we  understand  each 
other." 

The  walrus,  briefly  meditant  upon  this,  did  n't  like  it. 
"Don't  be  so  sure  you  understand  it  all,"  was  his  parting 
word,  by  which  he  really  meant  that  he  failed  to  under- 


228  COMMON  CAUSE 

stand  Jeremy.  There  was  a  large  leaven  of  timidity  in  his 
imposing  bulk. 

To  Andrew  Galpin  the  interview  as  detailed  by  his  boss 
proved  no  great  surprise.  "  Dutch  Bob  "  —  thus  he  irrev 
erently  dubbed  Fenchester's  leading  banker  —  "is  sore 
on  two  counts.  You  mussed  up  his  bill.  That 's  the  first 
and  worst.  The  other  is  our  support  of  Mart  Embree." 

"But  Embree  and  Wanser  worked  for  the  bill  together." 

"Ay-ah.  That's  all  right.  Wanser  is  all  for  Embree 
when  he 's  a  German  booster.  He 's  all  against  him  when 
he's  a  radical.  It's  one  of  the  twists  of  politics." 

"Why  are  they  so  hot  about  this  school  business  any 
way?  It  almost  makes  me  believe  that  Wymett  and 
Laurens  are  right  in  their  Deutschtum  theory." 

"Don't  you  go  seeing  ghosts,  Boss,"  advised  the  gen 
eral  manager,  good-humoredly. 

"Then  you  don't  take  any  stock  in  the  notion." 

"About  the  Germans?  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Let  'em 
play  with  their  little  Dutch  toys.  I  guess  we're  a  big 
enough  country  to  absorb  all  the  sauerkraut  and  wiener- 
wursts  they  can  put  into  our  system.  What 's  the  use  of 
being  cranky  about  it?  It  only  gets  the  paper  in  wrong." 

"We're  certainly  in  wrong  with  Wanser.  And  now 
we're  out.  Got  twenty  thousand  dollars  up  your  sleeve, 
Andy?" 

"No.  I've  spent  my  week's  salary,"  answered  the 
other  with  a  grin.  "The  Drovers'  Bank  would  be  my  best 
guess." 

To  the  Drovers'  Bank  went  the  owner  of  the  Fenches- 
ter  Guardian,  a  daily  with  a  rapidly  rising  circulation  of 
eleven  thousand,  an  increasing  advertising  patronage,  and 
a  fair  plant.  He  was  courteously  received  by  the  presi- 


COMMON  CAUSE  229 

dent  of  the  institution,  an  old,  glossy,  and  important- 
looking  nonentity  named  Warrington.  Mr.  Warrington 
listened  with  close  attention,  made  some  thoughtful  fig 
ures  on  a  blotter,  and  requested  Mr.  Robson  to  return 
that  afternoon  when  a  positive  answer  would  be  given. 
But  Mr.  Warrington  thought  —  he  was  quite  of  the  opin 
ion  —  he  confidently  believed  —  that  there  would  be  no 
difficulty. 

"There's  one  thing  that  worries  me,  Boss,"  com 
mented  Andrew  Galpin  as  the  pair  sat  absorbing  coffee 
and  pie  into  their  systems  at  a  five-cent,  time-saving 
lunch-counter  near  the  office. 

"Pass  me  the  sugar  —  and  the  worry,"  requested 
Jeremy. 

"Why  should  Wanser  close  down  just  at  this  time?" 

"Why  not?" 

"Well,  safely  secured  loans  of  twenty  thousand  dollars 
are  n't  the  kind  of  business  a  bank  chucks  to  another 
bank." 

"Did  n't  I  indicate  to  you  that  his  loyal  German  heart 
was  sore?" 

"Why  was  n't  it  sore  last  summer,  when  the  bill  was 
up?" 

"Do  you  think  somebody's  been  stirring  him  up  to  go 
after  us?" 

"  More  likely  he  's  got  some  reason  to  think  we  're  up 
against  it." 

" Hoots!  We  were  never  in  such  good  shape." 

"That's  our  view.  I'm  wondering  if,  maybe,  Bausch 
and  his  lot  are  putting  up  some  kind  of  a  game." 

"What  kind  of  a  game  can  they  be  putting  up?" 

"I'd  have  to  understand  German  to  read  their  minds. 


230  COMMON  CAUSE 

Maybe  they'll  stir  up  the  advertisers  against  us.  Like 
Stockmuller." 

"Any  local  advertiser  that  thinks  he  can  do  business 
without  The  Guardian,"  stated  the  owner  arrogantly, 
"is  suffering  from  an  aggravated  form  of  fool-in-the- 
head." 

"That's  good  doctrine.  If  only  you  can  make  'em  be 
lieve  it." 

"They  believe  it  all  right." 

"Say,  Boss.  Why  not  get  Mart  Embree's  view  on 
it?" 

"Good  idea." 

Jeremy  went  to  the  Governor-elect.  "What  did  you 
expect?"  asked  that  acute  commentator  on  men  and 
events.  "Can't  you  understand  that  you  insulted  every 
good  German-American  by  attacking  them  on  the  point 
where  their  pride  is  most  involved,  the  superiority  of 
their  educational  system?" 

"Allowing  that,  is  this  just  a  belated  revenge  on  Wan- 
ser's  part?" 

"No.   It's  business." 

"To  drop  $1400  a  year  interest  on  a  good  note?" 

"It  would  have  cost  the  Trust  Company  more  than 
that  to  carry  you." 

"I  don't  get  the  point,  Martin." 

"Deutscher  Club  account.  Emil  Bausch's  account. 
Henry  Vogt.  Arndt  &  Niebuhr.  Stockmuller  —  Have 
I  said  enough?" 

"They  would  have  withdrawn?  Are  they  as  sore  as 
that?" 

"One  of  these  days  you'll  realize  the  truth  of  what  I 
told  you  about  committing  hara-kiri,  Jem.  There 's  only 


COMMON  CAUSE  231 

one  safe  way  with  the  Germans.  Let  them  alone  and 
they'll  let  you  alone." 

"Oh!  Will  they!  That  shows  how  one-sidedly  you  look 
at  it.  They  Ve  begun  flooding  the  office  already  with  their 
press- work  for  the  winter  Singing  Society  festival." 

"Perfectly  harmless.  You  certainly  can't  see  anything 
objectionable  in  that." 

"No;  I  can't,"  admitted  Jeremy. 

"  Run  a  lot  of  it,  then.  It  costs  nothing,  and  it  will  help 
square  you  for  the  school  bill  break." 

Which  Jeremy  found  good  advice  and  resolved  to  fol 
low.  He  said  as  much  and  was  approved  as  one  coming 
to  his  senses  after  regrettable  errancy. 

"How  much  pull  do  you  think  the  Deutscher  Club 
crowd  have  with  the  Drovers'  Bank?"  asked  Jeremy. 

"Not  so  much.  If  you  do  have  difficulty  there,  let  me 
know.  I  could  probably  fix  you  up  in  some  of  the  out-of- 
town  banks." 

The  Drovers'  Bank  made  no  difficulty.  Mr.  Warring- 
ton  was  most  amenable  when  Jeremy  returned.  This 
helped  to  reassure  the  borrower  that  no  financial  plot 
threatened  his  newspaper.  He  would  have  felt  less  happy 
had  he  known  that  the  interval  between  his  visits  had 
been  utilized  by  Mr.  Warrington  to  pay  a  call  of  con 
sultation  upon  a  certain  florid  and  self-important  gentle 
man,  no  lover  of  The  Guardian  or  its  editor  since  he  had 
suffered  indignities  of  print  as  "President  Puff"  from 
Jeremy's  satiric  and  not  always  well-advised  pen. 

"Let  him  have  it,"  directed  the  public  utilitarian. 
"Three  months'  note." 

Montrose  Clark  smiled  puffily  upon  Judge  Selden 
Dana  later  at  the  club. 


232  COMMON  CAUSE 

"I  thought  he  would  come  around  to  us,"  he  stated. 

"What  will  you  do  now?"  asked  the  lawyer. 

"  Wait, "  replied  the  magnate.  ' 

Which  might  have  been  regarded  either  as  direction, 
threat,  or  declaration  of  intent,  and  partook  of  the  nature 
of  all  three. 


CHAPTER  IX 

BUDDY  HIGMAN,  prosperous  in  a  new  blue-and- 
yellow  mackinaw  (Christmas),  a  pair  of  fur  mittens 
(New  Year's),  and  high  snow-boots  (accumulated  sav 
ings),  entered  the  Fenchester  Post-Office  with  the  mien  of 
one  having  important  business  with  the  Government. 
Four  dollars  a  week  was  now  Buddy's  princely  stipend 
from  The  Guardian,  for  working  before  and  after  school 
hours  at  a  special  job  of  clipping  and  sorting  advertise 
ments  from  the  press  of  the  State,  for  purposes  of  com 
parison. 

Occasionally  Buddy  brought  in  an  item  of  news,  with 
all  the  pride  of  a  puppy  bringing  in  a  mouse,  and  beat 
it  out  with  two  fingers  on  a  borrowed  typewriter.  Such 
of  these  contributions  as  got  into  print  were  paid  for 
extra.  Thereby  Buddy  was  laboriously  building  up  a 
bank  account.  It  was  young  Mr.  Higman's  intention  to 
be,  one  day,  Governor  of  the  State.  But  in  his  wilder  and 
more  untrammeled  flights,  he  hoped  to  be  an  editor  like 
Mr.  Robson.  Buddy  was  an  enthusiastic,  even  a  hiero- 
phantic  worker  at  his  job.  He  was  worth  all  that  The 
Guardian  paid  him.  Even  had  he  not  been,  the  Boss 
would  have  kept  him  on.  For  he  was,  all  unknowing,  a 
link;  decidedly  a  tenuous  link,  but  the  only  permanent 
and  reliable  one,  between  Jeremy  and  a  foregone  past. 

At  the  stamp  window  Mr.  Burton  Higman,  dealing 
with  the  United  States  Government,  produced  a  silver 
dollar  and  gave  his  order  in  a  firm  and  manly  voice. 


234  COMMON  CAUSE 

"Hullo,  Buddy,"  greeted  the  clerk.  "Still  got  that  girl 
in  Yurrup,  I  see." 

A  fire  sprang  and  spread  in  Mr.  Higman's  face.  "And 
the  rest  in  postal-cards,"  he  directed  with  dignity. 

"You're  our  best  little  customer,"  continued  the  flip 
pant  clerk.  (The  little  customer  murderously  contem 
plated  arranging  with  The  Guardian,  later,  to  write  an 
editorial  about  him  and  get  him  fired!)  "Write  to  her 
every  day,  don't  che?" 

"Shuttup,  y'  ole  fool!"  retorted  the  infuriate  youth, 
stepping  aside  to  reckon  up  his  purchase,  lest  it  might  be 
short. 

"Yessir,"  continued  the  blatant  gossip,  to  the  next 
comer.  "He  sure  is  the  ready  letter- writer,  only  an* 
original.  Don't  see  how  he  has  time  to  help  you  edit  your 
paper,  Mr.  Robson." 

Mr.  Robson !  The  shock  diverted  Buddy  at  the  twenty- 
eighth  count.  He  looked  up  into  the  friendly  face  of  the 
Boss. 

He  hastened  to  defend  himself. 

"I  yain't,  either,  Mr.  Robson.  T ain't  letters  at  all. 
They're  fer  noospapers." 

"Are  they?"  said  his  chief,  walking  out  into  the  wintry 
air  with  him.  "I  did  n't  know  we  had  so  much  foreign 
circulation,  Buddy." 

"No,  sir;  we  ain't.  Say,  Boss,"  he  added  after  a  pause, 
"we  gained  five  new  ads  on  The  Record  this  week,  an* 
they  only  got  one  that  we  did  n't." 

"Good  business,  Buddy." 

"An'  I  had  two  sticks  in  the  paper  yesterday.  Dje  see 
it?  Story  of  the  kid  that  fell  through  the  ice." 

"  You'll  be  a  reporter  one  of  these  days,  son." 


COMMON  CAUSE  235 

"Oh,  gee!"  said  Buddy  ecstatically.  Then,  with  re 
sentment,  " What's  the  good  of  school,  anyway?" 

"  If  you  're  going  to  be  a  real  newspaper  man  you  '11  need 
all  the  education  you  can  get." 

"Yes,  sir."  The  aspiring  neophyte  sighed.  "That's 
what  She  says." 

There  was  but  one  "  She"  in  the  vocabulary  of  the  ex 
clusive  and  worshiping  Buddy.  Her  name  was  never  pro 
nounced  in  the  conversations  on  the  subject  between  him 
self  and  his  Boss.  There  was  no  need  of  being  more  specific, 
for  either  of  them. 

"It's  good  advice." 

Buddy  marched  along  beside  his  employer,  obviously 
wriggling  upon  the  hook  of  some  pointed  thought.  Pres 
ently  further  reticence  became  impossible. 

"Mr.  Robson!" 

"Well?" 

" Them  stamps— " 

"What  would  the  blue  pencil  do  to  a  sentence  begin 
ning  that  way,  Buddy?" 

"Those  stamps  —  it's  like  I  told  the  fresh  guy  at  the 
window." 

"They're  for  the  circulation  department?" 

"No,  sir.  But  they're  for  circulation  all  right.  I  been 
sendin'  the  paper  every  day  to  Hamburg." 

Jeremy's  pulses  quickened.  "Your  own  idea,  Buddy?" 

"  Nope.  I  'm  sendin'  it  to  Her.  It 's  Her  idear.  She  reads 
it  reg'lar.  She 's  deeply  int'rusted  in  my  cay-reer." 

"  Where  did  you  get  that?  It  does  n't  sound  like 
Her." 

"  It  ain't.  Got  it  out  of  a  book,"  confessed  the  boy.  "  I 
write  to  Her,  too,"  he  added  happily.  "She  ast  me  to." 


236  COMMON  CAUSE 

"What  does  she  think  of  your  work?"  inquired  the 
Boss  gravely. 

" 1  ain't  heard  from  Her  since  I  began  gettin'  my  stuff 
in  the  paper.  But  I  guess  She  likes  the  paper  all  right. 
She  tells  me  in  most  every  letter  what  a  big  thing  it  is  to 
help  make  a  noospaper." 

" Does  She?  What  else  does  She  say?" 

"  I  dunno."  The  boy  lost  himself  in  thought.  "  It 's  just 
a  little  here  an'  a  little  there.  She  never  says  much ;  not 
any  one  time.  But  you  can  see  She  thinks  a  lot  of  the 
Business." 

"Now,  you  would  n't  suppose  that,  would  you?"  said 
the  artful  Jeremy,  feeding  his  hunger  for  the  mere,  dear 
memory  of  her  brought  back  and  made  real  by  speech. 
"It  must  be  because  you  told  her  you  were  going  to  be  a 
newspaper  man." 

"That's  it.  She  thinks  it's  like  being  a  preacher,  only 
more  so.  She  says  you  must  n't  ever  be  mean  or  give  away 
a  friend  or  take  advantage  of  having  a  noospaper  to  write 
for.  An'  She  says  you  got  to  always  write  what  you  hon- 
est-to-God  think,  because  it's  yella  to  do  the  other  thing. 
I  guess  She  would  n't  stand  for  a  fake,  not  for  a  second !  I 
bet  She'd  take  the  hide  off'n  some  o'  them  —  o'  those 
Record  guys.  An'  She  says  the  hardest  thing  '11  be  some 
time  when  there's  somethin'  a  fella  oughta  write  an* 
that'll  get  him  in  wrong  if  he  does  write  it,  for  him  not  to 
lay  down  an'  quit  on  it.  An'  She  says  never,  never  to  be 
afraid  o'  your  job,  because  that  makes  the  job  your  boss 
an'  not  you  the  job's  boss.  An'  She  says  unless  a  guy  can't 
trust  himself  nobuddy  can  trust  him  an'  be  safe,  no  mat 
ter  how  much  they  want  to.  I  guess  that 's  about  all  right ! 
Ain't  it,  Boss?" 


COMMON  CAUSE  237 

"It's  about  all  right,  Buddy,"  said  Jeremy  with  an  ef 
fort.  That  final  bit  of  philosophy  had  stabbed. 

After  the  presses  had  stopped  and  the  offices  had  emp 
tied,  that  evening,  the  editor  of  The  Guardian  sat  at  his 
desk  with  the  little  photograph  of  Marcia  Ames  before 
him.  He  looked  into  the  frank  and  radiant  face;  into  the 
eyes  that  met  the  world  and  its  perplexities  so  steadily, 
with  so  pure  and  single-minded  a  challenge. 

"You  didn't  ask  much,  did  you,  my  dear!"  he  said 
softly  to  the  picture.  "You  only  asked  that  I  should  be 
straight  and  honest;  not  a  shifter  and  a  coward.  Well,  it 
was  too  much.  Buddy  may  do  better.  I  '11  help  him  as  far 
as  I  can.  That's  a  promise,  my  dear." 

He  heard  the  departing  Buddy  whistling  outside.  His 
footsteps  approached  the  door.  Jeremy  slipped  a  hand 
over  the  picture. 

"Anythin'  more  you  want  me  for,  Boss?"  asked  the 
boy,  appearing  in  the  doorway. 

"No,  Buddy.   Good-night." 

"'Night."  He  paused.  "I  dunno's  She  would  have 
wanted  me  to  tell  you  about  the  paper,"  he  said.  "She 
never  told  me  not  to,  though.  I  kinda  thought  you'd 
wanta  know.  I  guess  we  got  a  man-size  job  makin'  a 
paper  good  enough  for  Her  to  read,  ain't  we,  Boss!" 

"I  guess  we  have,"  said  Jeremy  steadily. 

The  door  shut  and  he  returned  to  his  contemplation  of 
the  picture.  "You  read  me,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "You 
were  reading  me  all  the  time.  You  read  me  in  the  Eli 
Wade  story.  And  in  the  golf  story.  And  perhaps  in 
others  I  did  n't  realize.  You  knew  I  'd  come  eventually  to 
do  just  such  a  wretched  crawl  as  I  did  on  the  German 
school  bill.  You  knew  that  you  never  could  trust  yourself 


238  COMMON  CAUSE 

to  me.  You  'd  seen  me  go  back  on  myself.  You  knew  that 
a  man  who  would  go  back  on  himself  would  go  back  on 
you  when  the  test  came."  He  mused  bitterly.  "As  I 
would  have  done,"  said  Jeremy  Robson. 

No  man  ever  pronounced  upon  himself  a  harsher  judg 
ment. 


CHAPTER  X 

BOSS,"  said  Andrew  Galpin. 
He  had  come  in  and  perched  himself  upon  a  corner  of 
Jeremy's  desk,  swinging  his  long  legs.  A  folded  copy  of 
that  day's  Guardian  served  him  for  a  fan,  which  he  plied 
languidly,  for  it  was  the  early  hot  spell  of  June,  1914.  The 
regard  with  which  he  favored  his  chief  was  both  affection 
ate  and  quizzical. 

"Well?"  queried  Jeremy. 

"D'  you  know  we're  pretty  near  two  years  old?" 

4 'That's  right,  Andy.  We  are." 

"D'  you  feel  it?" 

"Yes,  and  a  couple  of  hundred  years  on  top  of  it." 

"So  bad  as  that!  We're  some  old  for  our  age,  I'll  ad 
mit.  But  I  don't  see  any  signs  of  senile  decay,  yet." 

"Oh,  we  can  still  stir  our  bones  enough  to  get  off  the 
press  on  time." 

"What  do  you  think  of  this  feller's  paper,  anyway, 
Boss?" 

"Whatdoyow?" 

"Pretty  well  satisfied,  thank  you.  We  Ve  got  fourteen 
thousand  circulation  that  you  could  n't  pry  loose  with  a 
crow-bar." 

"Could  n't  we?  I  Jm  not  going  to  try." 

"Not  going  to?  You  have  tried.  You've  stepped  on 
every  cussed  one  of  their  cussed  toes,  one  time  or  an 
other.  Dam'  fi  don't  think  you  Ve  got  'em  so  they  like  it." 

"Queer  way  they've  got  of  showing  it,  then.  Do  you 
ever  read  the  editorial  correspondence?" 


240  COMMON  CAUSE 

"Oh,  that's  all  right!"  The  general  manager  waved 
such  matters  loftily  away.  "They  quit  the  paper,  sore. 
Then  they  get  over  it  and  come  back.  If  they  don't, 
there's  plenty  of  others  to  take  their  places.  Even  the 
Butchers"  —  this  being,  at  the  time,  Mr.  Galpin's  term 
indicative  of  that  powerful  and  flourishing  organization, 
the  Deutscher  Club  —  "have  come  around." 

"  Not  all  of  them.  Stockmuller  is  out  still." 

"  He 's  a  stiff-neck.  He 's  the  only  one." 

"  Not  the  only  advertiser.  The  Laundry  Association 
have  never  got  over  Wong  Kee,  the  yellow  peril.  The 
Emporium  takes  as  little  space  as  possible.  And  I  don't 
notice  the  P.-U.  crowding  any  contracts  on  us,  Andy." 

"  Verrall  tells  me  they  're  coming  back.  At  least,  they  're 
showing  flirtatious  signs." 

"  No !  I  wonder  what  kind  of  a  bargain  they  '11  offer  now." 

"You  ought  to  curb  that  mean,  suspicious  nature  of 
yours,  Boss,"  reproved  Galpin  solemnly.  "Now,  /  set  it 
down  to  force  of  habit  on  the  P.-U.'s  part.  Something's 
in  the  air.  Therefore  they  begin  to  advertise.  It 's  the 
cuttle-fish  principle.  Only  they  use  printer's  ink." 

"What's  their  little  game?" 

"Self-defense,  I  guess.  The  Governor  is  sharpening  up 
his  Corporation  Control  Bill." 

"We  '11  be  for  it.  The  P.-U.  advertising  won't  make 
any  difference.  Montrose  Clark  ought  to  know  that  by 
this  time.  If  he  knows  anything,"  qualified  Jeremy. 

"Don't  worry  about  President  Puff.  He  knows  a  lot  of 
things  he  did  n't  know  before  The  Guardian  tackled  the 
job  of  his  education.  One  of  'em  is  that  the  P.-U.  is  going 
to  need  just  as  much  friendship  and  just  as  little  enmity 
as  it  can  get  when  this  bill  comes  up." 


COMMON  CAUSE  241 

"And  Clark  is  going  to  smooth  us  down  with  his  ad 
vertising,  eh?" 

Andy  lifted  up  his  voice  in  pertinent  song: 

"  There  was  a  young  man  who  said,  'Why 
Can't  I  look  in  my  Ear  with  my  Eye? 
If  I  set  my  mind  to  it 
I  'm  sure  I  could  do  it. 
You  never  can  tell  till  you  try.' 

There's  the  P.-U.  motto,"  he  added;  "and  a  noble  one  it 
is.  'You  never  can  tell  till  you  try.'" 

"Let  'em  try  somewhere  else  than  in  The  Guardian." 

"Not  so,  Boss,"  argued  Galpin.  "This  bill  is  rough 
stuff.  It'll  pretty  near  wipe  out  the  P.-U.  They're  en 
titled  to  a  yell,  at  least.  Even  Verrall  admits  that.  And 
what  Verrall  won't  swallow  whole,  when  it  comes  from 
Mart  Embree,  must  be  tough  swallowing." 

"Verrall  wants  to  make  his  advertising  total  as  big  as 
possible." 

"Being  human  —  although  an  advertising  manager  — 
he  does.  Well,  he's  got  no  kick  coming.  Look  at  the 
clippings  of  your  young  friend  and  disciple,  Mr.  Buddy 
Higman.  The  Record  is  nowhere.  Respected  Sir  and 
Editor,  as  your  correspondents  from  the  cheese  district 
write;  we 're  making  money  this  year.  Real,  guaranteed 
money." 

"Enough  to  take  up  our  note?" 

"Why  worry?  The  bank  doesn't.  Old  Warrington 
purrs  like  a  cat  every  time  he  meets  me.  You  can  read  in 
any  witch-book  that  a  banker  purring  like  a  cat  is  a  sure 
sign  of  prosperity." 

"What's  it  in  your  scheme-hatching  mind  to  do  with 
all  this  prosperity,  Andy?J> 


242  COMMON  CAUSE 

"New  press,"  returned  the  general  manager,  who  had 
been  leading  up  to  this  point. 

Pro  and  con  they  argued  it,  the  owner  finally  agreeing. 

"We  really  owe  it  to  the  advertisers  as  well  as  the 
readers"  had  been  Andy's  best  argument.  "Look  how 
they've  stuck." 

"They  Ve  had  to,"  returned  Jeremy  grimly.  "Half  of 
"em  would  have  got  out  at  every  bump  if  they  had  n't 
been  afraid." 

"Well,  we're  solid  with  'em  now.  Look  what  we  did  to 
'em  in  April.  Hiked  the  rates  a  clean  ten  per  cent  all 
around.  And  did  they  peep?" 

"They  did  not.  They  howled." 

"Force  of  habit  again.  They  all  came  through,  did  n't 
they?  We  're  making  it  pay  'em." 

"We're  giving  them  all  the  return  they're  entitled  to," 
agreed  the  editor.  "I  wish  I  were  as  sure  that  we're 
giving  the  reading  public  as  good." 

"Don't  hear  many  kicks,  do  you?" 

"Lots.  If  I  did  n't  I  'd  know  we  were  rotten." 

"Ay-ah.  That  was  a  fool  question  of  mine.  But  I 
mean,  you  can  feel  the  paper  taking  hold  all  the  time, 
can't  you?  We're  certainly  putting  it  over.  We've  made 
a  Governor  already.  What  do  you  expect?  Want  to  elect 
a  President  and  Congress?" 

"The  Governor  is  one  of  my  troubles,  Andy." 

"Butting  in?" 

"You  can't  call  it  that." 

"What  can  you  call  it?"  demanded  the  downright 
Galpin. 

"Well,  boosting.   Without  him  we  would  n't  be  where 


COMMON  CAUSE  243 

"Nor  anywhere  else,"  added  the  other  with  emphasis. 

" Probably  not.  I  appreciate  that.  I'd  give  him  the 
paper,  if  he  needed  it,  as  far  as  that  goes.  But  as  long  as 
my  name  is  on  it,  I  want  it  to  be  my  paper." 

"Well,  'Smiling  Mart'  isn't  trying  to  pry  it  away 
from  you,  is  he?' 

"Of  course  not.  It 's  hard  to  put  into  words.  But  I  feel 
as  if  I  —  we  —  The  Guardian  were  being  surrounded  by 
a  sort  of  political  web." 

"The  Governor  being  the  spider?" 

"No.  It's  his  web,  in  a  way;  but  he  is  n't  spinning  it. 
It's  being  spun  for  him  and  for  us.  All  our  readers  iden 
tify  us  completely  with  his  policies.  If  I  say  anything 
editorially,  it  commits  the  Governor.  People  take  it  for 
granted  that  we  're  his  mouthpiece.  It  is  n't  fair  to  him  or 
to  us." 

"Does  he  take  advantage  of  it?" 

"We — ell;  I  don't  know.  He  does  n't  mean  to.  Every 
now  and  then,  though,  something  will  come  up  where  he 
wants  us  to  do  this  or  not  to  do  that  —  always  some 
unimportant  thing —  because  of  its  influence  on  more  im 
portant  things  that  we  're  both  interested  in." 

"As  for  instance?" 

"Take  all  this  boosting,  press-agent  stuff  that  comes 
along  and  that  Embree  wants  in,"  replied  Jeremy.  "Some 
times  it 's  political.  Sometimes  it 's  personal.  Sometimes  it 's 
the  German  stuff  that  Wymett  used  to  talk  about.  I  Ve 
got  to  admit  that  Embree 's  view  is  always  for  the  practi 
cal  good  of  the  paper.  By  following  his  advice,  we  've  held 
sulky  advertisers  more  than  once.  But  I  know  this,  I  'm 
doing  for  him  —  and  for  the  politics  of  it  —  and  for  the 
paper  itself,  in  a  way,  I  guess  —  what  I  would  n't  do  for 


244  COMMON  CAUSE 

any  advertiser.  And  sometimes  it's  been  a  matter  of 
principles.  Not  very  important,  maybe,  but  principles 
just  the  same.  Compromise,  Andy." 

" Life's  mostly  compromise,  I  guess.  There's  a  little 
more  of  it  in  the  newspaper  game  than  in  other  lines  be 
cause  the  newspaper  touches  life  at  more  points  than  any 
other  business." 

"I've  always  thought,"  pursued  Jeremy,  "  that  when  I 
came  to  own  a  newspaper  it  would  be  independent  if  it 
was  n't  anything  else.  Well,  look  at  The  Guardian!" 

"Ay-ah.    I'm  looking  at  it.   What's  wrong  with  it?" 

"It's  ducking  a  little  here,  and  dodging  a  little  there, 
and  trying  to  be  cautious  about  this  issue  and  polite 
about  that  man,  and  so  on.  That  is  n't  my  notion  of  being 
independent." 

"What  is?  I  guess  we're  as  cocky  as  any  paper  in  the 
country.  You  can't  tell  all  the  people  to  go  to  hell  all  the 
time,"  pointed  out  the  general  manager,  reasonably. 

"  I  don't  want  to.  But  I  want  to  be  able  to  if  I  do  want 
to.  Am  I  talking  like  a  fool,  Andy?" 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  the  other,  troubled. 

A  silence  fell  between  them.  Galpin  whittled  a  pencil 
to  so  careful  and  delicate  a  point  that  it  immediately 
broke.  He  repeated  the  experiment  with  like  result  be 
fore  he  spoke. 

"Say,  Jem." 

The  other  looked  up,  attentive.  Seldom,  since  their 
new  relationship  had  the  older  man  employed  any  for 
mula  of  address  other  than  the  half-jocular,  half-official, 
"Boss." 

"Say  it,  Andy." 

"Who  are  you  making  this  paper  for?" 


COMMON  CAUSE  245 

Across  the  editor's  face  passed  a  swift  shock,  as  of 
thought  surprised  and  betrayed. 

"  Making  it  for?"  he  said  slowly. 

"Ay-ah.  For  yourself,  I  guess.   Huh?" 

"Yes." 

"And  it  don't  suit?" 

"Not  altogether." 

"Not  good  enough?" 

"No." 

"Ay-ah.  I  see."  One  of  those  extraordinary  flashes  of 
intuitive  insight  which  sometimes  pass  electrically  between 
surcharged  and  kindred  minds,  culminated  in  the  general 
manager's  next  question.  "What  does  she  think  of  it?" 

"Who?"  The  startled  counter-question  represented 
less  than  Jeremy's  normal  frankness. 

Andy  rose  and  stood  above  the  other.  "How  should  I 
know  who?  If  I  did  I'd  know  more  about  the  paper." 

"You're  right."  For  the  moment  Jeremy  was  as  intui 
tive  as  his  friend.  "You  think  it  would  have  been  more 
honest  of  me,  as  I  'm  making  a  paper  for  some  one  else,  to 
let  you  in  on  it." 

"What  does  she  think  of  The  Guardian?"  persisted 
Andy. 

Jeremy  stared  out  into  the  gray  and  bleak  spaces. 
"God  knows,"  he  said.  "I've  no  way  of  finding  out." 

Andy  turned  and  went  to  the  door.  "Forget  it,"  he 
said.  The  tone  was  his  sufficient  apology. 

That  night  of  June,  1914,  two  years  after  Marcia 
Ames's  lips  had  pressed  themselves  to  his  cheek,  and  he 
had  felt  her  sobbing  breath  on  his  face,  Jeremy  went 
again  to  the  bridge  where  they  had  stood.  A  barge  filled 


246  COMMON  CAUSE 

with  young  people  passed  the  turn  of  the  lake.  A  canoe 
bearing  a  boy  and  a  girl  —  how  young  they  seemed  to 
lonely  Jeremy,  and  how  enviable!  —  floated  beneath 
him,  and  their  speech  came  up  to  him,  dim,  tender,  and 
murmurous.  Then,  sped  by  a  poignant  magic,  the 
blended  voices  of  Marcia's  song  were  wafted  to  him 
across  the  waters: 

"Who  wins  his  love  shall  lose  her, 
Who  loses  her  shall  gain, 
For  still  the  spirit  wooes  her, 
A  soul  without  a  stain, 
And  Memory  still  pursues  her 
With  longings  not  in  vain!" 

He  could  hear  in  the  distance  the  faint  plash  of  the  oars 
that  drove  the  boat  of  song.  The  fairy  voices,  fainter, 
sang: 

"He  loses  her  who  gains  her, 
Who  watches,  day  by  day, 
The  dust  of  time  ..." 

The  words  were  blurred  as  the  unseen  boat  passed  be 
hind  some  unseen  cape;  then  the  music  died  on  the  breeze. 
Jeremy  bent  over  the  railing,  where  Marcia's  hand  had 
rested. 

Half  a  world  away  an  obscure  fanatic,  unknown  to  the 
world  and  to-day  almost  forgotten  by  it,  was  gloomily, 
lonelily,  dreamily  blending  those  common,  inexpensive, 
terrific  chemicals  whereby  he  was  to  plunge  civilization 
in  carnage.  The  happy  boats  passed  on.  The  happy 
voices  blended  again  and  were  silenced.  The  busy  presses 
chronicled  the  events  of  unsuspecting  nations  to  little 
folk  of  souls  yet  untouched  who,  sleeping,  "rose  up  to 
buy  and  sell  again."  Then  the  bomb  of  .the  dreamy 


COMMON  CAUSE  247 

fanatic  was  flung,  and  in  the  force  of  that  explosion, 
the  wave  of  war,  which  had  hung  crested  and  sus 
pended,  broke  and  whelmed  the  world  in  such  flood  that 
the  quicksands  upon  its  edges  spread  even  to  far-away 
Fenchester. 


END  OF  PART  II 


PART  III 


CHAPTER  I 

OTRICKEN,  at  the  first,  by  the  unimaginable  vast- 
j^  ness  of  the  tragedy  which  had  befallen  Europe,  the 
State  of  Centralia  quickly  recovered,  and  lifted  up  a 
thousand  voices  of  acclaim.  Germany  was  being  splen 
didly  victorious.  Nothing  could  stop  the  Kaiser's  per 
fected  war-machine ;  nothing  stand  against  the  valor  and 
discipline  of  the  field-gray  legions.  Triumph  was  a  matter 
of  only  a  few  months;  perhaps  only  a  few  weeks.  France 
would  be  crushed;  Russia  humbled;  England,  the  faith 
less  and  foolhardy,  penned  in  her  island  and  slowly 
starved  into  submission.  Deutschland,  Deutschland  iiber 
Alles!  The  loyalest  Imperial  colony  could  hardly  have 
rejoiced  more  openly  or  fervently  than  did  Centralia,  a 
sovereign  State  of  the  United  States  of  America.  Slow, 
still,  systematic,  scientific  propagation  of  Deutschtum 
throughout  the  years  now  reaped  its  due  reward. 

Those  there  were  in  the  State,  and  many,  who  revolted 
from  the  brutality  of  Germany's  war-making.  But  what 
voice  could  they  find  in  Centralia,  where  politicians  and 
press  and  pulpit  were  dominated  either  by  the  influence 
or  the  fear  of  organized  German  sentiment?  Let  a  man 
but  speak  a  word  against  Germany's  cause,  and  the 
anathema  of  Deutschtum  descended  upon  him.  A  highly 
practical  anathema,  too;  directed  to  his  business  affairs 
and  even  his  social  relations.  The  accusation  of  prejudice, 
of  Wall  Street  influence,  of  British  sympathies  lay  against 
any  who  dared  question  or  criticize  the  " necessary  rigor" 


252  COMMON  CAUSE 

of  German  methods.    The  rape  of  Belgium  was  hardly 
more  triumphant  than  the  seduction  of  Centralia. 

Most  conspicuous  of  the  few  who  braved  the  local 
power  of  Deutschtum  was  Magnus  Laurens.  Less  than  a 
month  after  the  declaration  of  war  he  spoke  at  a  Manu 
facturers*  Association  convention  dinner  in  Bellair,  the 
metropolis  of  the  State.  "America  and  the  Future"  was 
his  topic.  It  should  have  been  a  safe  topic;  safe  and  sane, 
and  in  the  hands  of  a  less  obstinately  courageous  partisan 
would  have  been.  Indeed,  for  twenty  minutes,  it  was. 
Then  the  speaker,  setting  back  his  massive  shoulders,  and 
with  a  significant  deepening  of  his  voice,  challenged  the 
sense  of  justice  of  the  gathering,  in  these  words: 

"What  future  can  America  hope  for  if  the  policies  of 
nations  are  to  be  dominated  by  the  nation  to  whom  the 
sacredest  pledge  is  but  a  scrap  of  paper  when  it  conflicts 
with  her  blood-stained  ambitions?" 

Gordon  Fliess,  the  head  of  the  great  Fliess  Breweries, 
was  on  his  feet  instantly.  "Order!"  he  shouted.  "The 
speaker  is  out  of  order,  Mr.  Chairman." 

Echoes  came  from  all  parts  of  the  banqueting  hall, 
mingled  with  cries  of  dissent.  Laurens  raised  his  great 
voice,  and  dominated  the  tumult.  It  was  a  reckless 
speech;  it  was  violent;  it  was,  in  parts,  unfair.  But  it 
raised  a  voice  in  Centralia  that  arraigned  the  State  before 
a  court  of  honor  for  self- judgment;  a  voice  too  powerful 
to  be  silenced,  too  clear  to  be  ignored. 

Yet,  instantly,  the  silencers  were  at  work.  Their  first 
attempt  was  through  the  toastmaster  who  laid  an  arrest 
ing  hand  upon  the  speaker's  arm,  only  to  be  shaken  off 
with  a  violence  which  sufficiently  warned  him.  Shouts, 
hoots,  hisses,  and  cat-calls  failed  to  make  any  impression 


COMMON  CAUSE  253 

on  Laurens.  Galvanized  into  action  the  reporters  were 
taking  down  every  word.  But  there  descended  upon  them 
an  emergency  committee  hastily  constituted  by  Fliess, 
Mark  Henkel,  of  the  Henkel  Casket  Company,  and  other 
reliable  Germans  who  not  only  warned  them  against  pub 
lishing  the  proceedings,  but  also  manned  the  telephones 
and  issued  their  directions  through  owners,  advertising 
managers,  and  editors  regarding  the  event.  Out  of  six 
dailies  published  in  Bellair,  only  The  Journal,  already  un 
der  suspicion  because  of  its  independence,  reported  the 
one  sensational  and  interesting  speech  of  the  occasion. 
That  single  publication,  however,  gave  the  matter  cur 
rency.  The  German  dailies  took  it  up  virulently.  The 
Journal  was  all  but  swamped  with  protests. 

Political  matters  had,  on  the  day  when  the  Laurens 
speech  was  published,  brought  Cassius  Kimball,  the  man 
aging  editor  and  dominant  spirit  of  The  Journal,  to  Fen- 
chester  to  see  Governor  Embree,  whose  fortunes  the  paper 
had  early  backed.  After  his  call,  the  Governor  sent  for 
Robson.  They  had  not  seen  each  other  since  war  began. 
Martin  Embree's  smile  was  happy  as  that  of  a  boy. 

"Well,  Jem,"  was  his  greeting.  "We've  got  him  this 
time." 

"Who?" 

"Magnus  Laurens.  Didn't  you  see  this  morning's 
Bellair  Journal?" 

"I've  just  been  reading  it." 

"That  kills  Laurens." 

"For  what?" 

"For  everything  and  anything  in  this  State.  Gov 
ernor  —  Legislature  —  dogcatcher;  he  could  n't  get 
elected  to  anything,  if  this  is  handled  properly." 


254  COMMON  CAUSE 

"I'm  giving  his  speech  in  full,  in  to-night's  paper." 

"That's  it!  And  a  slashing  editorial  to  follow  to 
morrow.  Eh?" 

"Slashing  which  way?" 

"Why,  into  Laurens." 

"  Not  me,"  declared  Jeremy  with  more  emphasis  than 
grammar. 

"You  would  n't  back  him  up!"  cried  Embree. 

"Not  in  everything.  There's  a  good  deal  in  that 
speech,  though,  that  needed  to  be  said;  that  was  right." 

"Jem,  are  you  off  your  head?" 

"Never  felt  saner  in  my  life." 

"They  always  say  that  just  before  they  begin  to  bite 
the  paper  off  the  walls,"  smiled  the  other.  "Come,  Jem! 
Here's  our  chance  to  put  Laurens  out  of  the  game  once 
and  for  all.  Give  me  a  column  and  I'll  do  it  myself." 

"The  chance '11  have  to  wait." 

"Until  when?" 

"Until  he  is  n't  as  near  right  as  he  is  on  this." 

"Jem,"  said  the  Governor  suddenly  growing  grave, 
"why  is  it  you're  always  pussy-footing  when  Laurens  is 
in  question?" 

"  I  don't  like  that  word,  Martin." 

"Word  the  question  to  suit  yourself,  then." 

"And  I  don't  like  the  question.  It  reminds  me  that  the 
last  time  I  pussy-footed  was  on  an  issue  that  Laurens  met 
fair  and  square." 

"And  it  licked  him." 

"There  are  worse  things  than  being  licked." 

"That's  cant,"  retorted  Embree  promptly.  "When 
you're  licked  politically,  you're  through.  You  can't  get 
anything  done.  Oh,  I  don't  mean  that  I  'm  afraid  to  fight 


COMMON  CAUSE  255 

a  losing  fight  when  a  big  principle  is  involved.  My  record 
shows  that,  plain  enough.  But  this  war  is  n't  our  fight." 

''What's  your  view  on  the  war,  Mart?" 

"It  came  in  the  nick  of  time." 

"For  what?" 

"For  us.  For  our  programme.  We  can  put  through 
pretty  much  anything  we  want  in  the  line  of  reform  legis 
lation.  As  long  as  the  war  continues,  the  German  vote 
will  stand  by  us  almost  solidly,  if  only  we  play  fair  with 
them.  Even  men  like  Wanser  and  Fliess  and  the  big  busi 
ness  crowd  that  have  always  fought  us  are  ready  to  swing 
into  line,  if  we  don't  rush  things  too  hard.  Why,  Jem,"  — 
the  keen,  fine  face  lighted  up  with  enthusiasm,  —  "we  can 
make  Centralia  the  banner  State  of  the  country  in  social 
reform  and  popular  rule." 

"As  to  rushing  things,  is  n't  this  Corporation  Control 
Bill  a  little  rough?" 

"It's  meant  to  be.  It'll  be  toned  down  in  conference. 
We  made  it  pretty  stiff  to  throw  a  scare  into  the  P.-U. 
crowd.  There  won't  be  anything  we  can't  do  to  those  fel 
lows,  if  the  war  keeps  on  long  enough." 

"What  do  you  really  think  about  the  invasion  of  Bel 
gium,  Martin?"  asked  Jeremy  abruptly. 

"I  don't  like  it." 

"  I  hate  the  whole  business." 

"But  I  don't  like  war,  anyway.  And  this  is  part  of  war. 
I  'm  going  to  keep  my  hands  off.  Neutrality  is  our  watch 
word,  Jem.  The  President  has  given  it  to  us,  and  I  guess 
in  international  affairs  we  can  afford  to  follow  the  Presi 
dent.  Let  Magnus  Laurens  and  his  gang  do  the  fireworks. 
They'll  only  burn  their  fingers." 

"Belgium  was  neutral,"  said  Jeremy  gloomily. 


256  COMMON  CAUSE 

"Let  Belgium  alone  and  'tend  to  Laurens." 

But  this  the  editor  of  The  Guardian  would  not  do.  He 
ignored  the  Manufacturers'  Association  banquet  incident 
editorially.  Publication  of  the  mere  report  of  the  Lau 
rens  speech,  however,  stirred  up  a  volume  of  local  dis 
pleasure  chiefly  on  the  part  of  the  Deutscher  Club  ele 
ment,  and  The  Guardian  received  some  pointed  letters  on 
the  subject  of  neutrality. 

"Neutrality,"  commented  Andrew  Galpin  thought 
fully  to  his  chief.  "That's  good  business  for  Mart  Em- 
bree.  He  can  preach  neutrality  and  tickle  the  Germans  at 
the  same  time,  for  our  kind  of  neutrality  in  Centralia  is 
sure  hall-marked  'Made-in-Germany.'  But  how  neutral 
are  we  going  to  be?  " 

"There's  no  such  thing  as  'how  neutral.'" 

"Oh,  is  n't  there!  Look  here,  Boss;  what's  practically 
every  paper  in  this  State,  on  this  war,  except  The  Bellair 
Journal?" 

"German.  They're  afraid  not  to  be." 

"Suppose  a  paper  is  really  neutral ;  gives  both  sides  an 
equal  show.  What '11  it  look  like  where  all  the  rest  are 
pro-German?  What'd  it  look  like  in  Germany?" 

"I  get  your  point,  Andy.  It  will  seem  to  lean  to  the 
Allies  by  contrast." 

"There  you  are!  Well,  what  are  we  going  to  do?" 

"Play  fair." 

"Sure.  But  we  can  be  cagey  about  it,  can't  we?" 

"To  what  extent?" 

"Enough  to  live.  I  don't  want  to  see  The  Guardian 
mess  up  in  a  fight  that's  none  of  our  fight  and  get  done  up 
so  bad  that  we  can't  help  win  the  fight  that  is  our  fight. 
Let  England  lick  Germany.  Our  business  is  to  play  the 


COMMON  CAUSE  257 

game  here  at  home  and  lick  the  corporation  crowd  for  leg 
islative  control  of  the  State.  Don't  you  think  it's  going 
to  be  a  cinch,  either,  just  because  we've  elected  Mart 
Embree  Governor!" 

"  Expediency  is  a  queer  text  for  you,  Andy." 

"  I  'm  all  for  expediency  as  against  idiocy." 

"What  about  butting  into  the  Wade  riot?" 

"That  was  for  a  friend.  War,  right  there  under  my 
nose.  This  other  thing  is  four  thousand  miles  away.  And 
I  hope  it  stays  there!" 

"Andy,"  propounded  his  chief,  "what  do  you  really 
think  of  the  Governor?" 

"'Smiling  Mart'?" 

"Is  that  an  answer?" 

"Ay-ah.  I  always  wonder  about  one  thing.  If  you 
brushed  that  smile  off  quick,  what'd  be  under  it?" 

"  He  asked  me  to  sit  in  his  box  at  the  convention  meet 
ing  of  the  Federated  German  Societies." 

"Oh,  you  got  an  invitation  from  the  Societies,  did 
you?" 

"Yes.   Issued  by  Bausch  as  secretary." 

"I  bet  he  spit  in  the  ink  before  he  signed  it.    Going?" 

"What  do  you  think?" 

"Sure." 

"Expediency  again,  eh?" 

"Ay-ah.  There's  no  principle  in  turning  down  an  in 
vitation,  even  if  it  will  do  us  some  good !" 

"  All  right,  Andy.  I  '11  go,"  laughed  the  editor. 

He  sat  in  the  Governor's  box  at  the  meeting.  There 
was  the  same  pan-Germanic  atmosphere  that  there  had 
been  two  years  before,  but  magnified.  The  Imperial  ban 
ners  were  more  flamboyant,  more  triumphant.  The  verve 


258  COMMON  CAUSE 

and  swing  of  "Deutschland,  Deutschland  iiber  Alles," 
was  more  martial ;  it  defied  the  world.  The  speeches  were 
more  fiery,  more  challenging,  more  instinct  with  the  fierce 
pride  of  a  dominant  nationalism;  and  again  Jeremy  felt 
resentfully,  in  the  references  to  the  adoptive  republic, 
that  tone  of  bland  and  intolerable  condescension  to  a 
lesser  people. 

The  Governor's  box  was  that  which  Magnus  Laurens 
had  occupied  in  1912.  Sitting  well  back  in  it,  Jeremy 
faced  the  high  balcony.  In  the  far  corner  a  fat,  steamy 
German  in  a  fancy  waistcoat  roared  out  "Hochs!"  of  as 
sent  and  applause  to  the  speakers.  But  before  Jeremy's 
wistful  vision  he  dissolved,  giving  place  to  another  figure; 
a  figure  slender,  gallant,  boyish,  erect.  Martin  Embree's 
touch  on  his  knee  recalled  Jeremy  to  realities. 
"Wake  up,  Jem!  What  ghosts  are  you  seeing?" 
"None.  Nothing,"  muttered  Jeremy,  and  stood  while 
the  fervid  gathering  sang  thunderously  "Die  Wacht  am 
Rhein." 


CHAPTER  II 

STEP  by  step  The  Guardian  followed  the  war  through 
its  pregnant  early  days.  In  presentation  of  the  news, 
both  Jeremy  and  Galpin  strove  to  be  conscientiously  neu 
tral.  For  Galpin,  this  was  simple  enough.  It  accorded 
with  his  creed,  that  the  news  should  stand  of  itself  and  for 
itself  and  let  the  people  judge.  Jeremy  took  it  harder. 
There  were  times  when,  in  the  security  of  his  den,  he  fin 
gered  his  pencil  with  a  fierce  and  mounting  resentment 
which  cried  for  expression  toward  Germany's  savagery 
and  terrorism.  On  the  other  hand,  he  knew  that  to  incite 
prejudices,  wrath,  and  hatred  within  America,  and  par 
ticularly  within  so  divided  a  State  akhis  own,  was  to 
thrust  the  nation  nearer  to  that  hell's  caldron  wherein 
Europe  agonized.  The  President  had  prescribed  neutral 
ity.  That,  Jeremy  recognized,  was  the  part  of  statesman 
ship.  He  appeased  his  own  soul  with  the  argument  that  it 
was  equally  the  part  of  honorable  journalism. 

If  he  had  thought  by  editorial  silence  to  satisfy  or  even 
conciliate  the  propagandists  of  Deutschtum  in  the  State, 
he  was  soon  undeceived.  The  process  of  the  absorption 
of  Centralia  by  the  German-Americans  was  swiftly  pro 
gressing,  and  as  a  newspaper  of  influence,  The  Guardian 
came  within  the  purview  of  their  programme.  Daily  the 
mail  deposited  upon  his  desk  a  swelling  flood  of  prosely 
tizing  literature;  pamphlets,  reprints,  letters  to  the  edi 
tor  from  writers  whom  he  had  never  heard  of  (and  who  in 
many  cases  had  no  existence)  as  well  as  from  his  own  cli 
entele,  excerpts  from  the  German  press,  editorials  from 


260  COMMON  CAUSE 

that  great  and  malign  force  in  American  journalism  who, 
already  secretly  plotting  with  Germany,  was  playing  the 
game  of  Teutonic  diplomacy  by  inciting  fear  and  dis 
trust  of  Japan  and  shouting  for  war  upon  and  annexation 
of  Mexico.  He  could  not  have  published  one  twentieth  of 
them.  He  did  not  publish  one  one-hundredth  of  them. 
Hardly  a  day  passed  without  his  being  stopped  on  the 
street  by  some  sorrowful  or  accusing  or  indignant  sub 
scriber  who  wished  to  know  why  The  Guardian  had  not 
reproduced  Pastor  Klink's  powerful  editorial  on  "The 
Crusader  Spirit  of  Germany,"  or  how  it  happened  that 
The  Record  printed  Mr.  Woeker's  letter  on  Belgian  provo 
cations  while  The  Guardian  had  n't  a  word  of  it.  Sus 
picion  established  itself  in  the  editor's  mind  that  some 
person  or  persons  were  making  daily  and  scientific  analy 
sis  of  his  newspaper  for  the  purpose  of  forcing  propaganda 
upon  it  by  the  power  of  protest.  He  suspected,  and  with 
reason,  the  Deutscher  Club. 

The  matter  of  news  soon  became  an  irritant  to  the 
apostles  of  Deutschtum.  To  the  layman,  news  is  simple 
fact,  the  product  of  the  world's  activities,  finished  and 
ready  for  the  press.  To  the  expert  journalist  news  is  a 
theme  and  the  printed  page  his  instrument  whereon  he 
may  render  that  theme  by  an  infinite  variety  of  inflec 
tions  and  with  infinitely  varying  effect  upon  his  public. 
Headlines  and  sub-heads  alone  may  vitally  alter  the 
whole  purport  of  an  article  not  otherwise  garbled.  So  long 
as  Germany's  record  was  one  of  consistent  victories,  the 
course  of  the  Centralia  newspapers  was  clearly  marked. 
They  had  but  to  print  the  cables  with  captions  appropri 
ate  to  the  facts,  in  order  to  please  their  self-appointed 
masters,  the  German- American  public.  But  Russia  now 


COMMON  CAUSE  261 

made  her  sensational  advance.  Victory  in  the  West  was 
threatened  by  disaster  in  the  East.  Much  ingenious  and 
painful  juggling  of  cable  news  was  imposed  upon  the 
harassed  journalistic  fraternity  of  Centralia  by  this  un 
fortunate  development.  Relegating  the  Russian  cam 
paign  to  nooks  and  corners  of  the  inner  pages  and  qualify 
ing  it  by  indeterminate  or  sometimes  satiric  headlines, 
was  the  most  generally  approved  method.  The  Guardian, 
however,  printed  the  news.  It  printed  it  straight,  for 
what  it  was  worth,  and  under  appropriate  captions. 
Somewhat  to  Jeremy's  surprise  and  more  to  his  relief,  the 
Governor  had  no  criticism  to  make  of  this  course. 

"So  long  as  you  stick  to  facts,  we've  got  a  good  de 
fense,"  was  his  view.  "They'll  kick.  Of  course  they'll 
kick.  Let  'em.  In  time  they'll  come  to  see  that  they're 
really  kicking  against  the  facts,  not  against  The  Guard 
ian.  Just  now  our  German  friends  are  pretty  excited  and 
touchy  and  nervous.  If  you  could  give  'em  a  little  more 
show  on  the  editorial  page,  while  this  Russian  business  is 
on,  it'd  help." 

Kick  the  German- Americans  certainly  did,  by  pen  and 
voice.  No  less  a  person  than  Robert  Wanser,  who  had 
maintained  a  mere  bowing  acquaintance  with  Jeremy 
since  the  Cultural  Language  Bill  episode,  took  it  upon 
himself  to  voice  a  protest  to  General  Manager  Galpin. 

11  Why  print  this  Russian  claptrap  at  all?"  he  asked. 

"All  the  papers  are  carrying  it,"  answered  Galpin. 

"Not  so  much  of  it,  and  not  so  prominently  as  The 
Guardian." 

"We  're  giving  it  what  it 's  worth  as  news,  just  as  we  give 
the  German  advances  in  the  West." 

"Everybody  knows  that  it  isn't  news.    It  is  British 


262  COMMON  CAUSE 

fabrications,  put  on  the  tables  to  fool  —  er  —  influence- 
able  newspapers." 

"  Influenceable,  eh?"  said  Galpin,  annoyed.  "Every 
body  knows,  do  they?  You  prove  it  to  us,  and  we'll  print 
it,  all  right." 

"You  are  making  a  mistake,"  pronounced  the  banker 
severely.  "For  a  newspaper  to  take  up  the  British  side  is 
very  suspicious." 

"Bunk!  The  Guardian  's  been  square,  and  you  know 
it.  But  we  're  not  going  to  stand  for  being  censored  by  a 
lot  of  organized  letter- writers." 

"A(c)h,  censored!"  The  banker's  guttural  almost 
emerged  upon  the  troubled  surface  of  speech.  "The  cen 
soring  is  inside  your  editorial  office,  if  anywhere.  You  re 
fuse  to  publish  our  letters  — " 

1 ' '  Our '  ?  Have  you  been  writing  us  letters  ? ' ' 

"I  have  sent  you  letters."  Mr.  Wanser's  face  became 
red. 

"Funny!  I  don't  recall  any.  Sign  'em?" 

"They  were  signed,"  returned  the  other,  with  an  effort 
at  loftiness. 

"With  what  name?"  demanded  Galpin  bluntly. 

"I  am  not  here  to  be  cross-examined  by  you." 

"You  started  this.  And  now  you  want  to  duck  it. 
Nothing  doing !  You  let  out  what  we  've  suspected ;  that 
a  lot  of  those  letters  are  machine-made,  and  sent  in  signed 
with  fake  names  or  with  real  names  stuck  on  as  a  blind 
for  some  committee.  That  don't  go,  in  The  Guardian. 
We've  had  too  much  stuff  put  over  on  us." 

The  banker's  dignity  dissolved  in  wrath.  "Don't  you 
get  fresh  with  me,  young  man.  I  guess  you  and  your 
boss,  too,  are  going  to  learn  something  one  of  these  days! 


COMMON  CAUSE  263 

Going  out  of  your  way  to  insult  the  best  citizens  in  the 
State  every  time  your  dirty,  pro-English  paper  — " 

"Oh,  you  make  me  sick!"  said  Galpin,  and  marched 
away,  leaving  Wanser  brandishing  a  denunciatory  fist  at 
nothing. 

The  split  between  the  Germans  and  The  Guardian  im 
perceptibly  widened,  as  time  went  on,  through  minor  in 
cidents,  arguments,  and  abortive  attempts  at  influence. 
Seizing  upon  its  opportunity,  The  Record  accepted  the 
whole  programme  of  local  German  censorship,  published 
nothing  that  could  possibly  offend,  trimmed  its  news  to 
the  prejudices  of  the  dominant  element,  and  by  these 
methods  cut  in  upon  its  rival's  local  circulation.  Verrall, 
however,  reported  that  as  yet  there  was  nothing  to  worry 
about,  while  at  the  same  time  earnestly  advocating  an  in 
offensive  foreign  news  policy  for  The  Guardian.  So  1914 
passed  into  1915,  and  the  paper  held  its  own. 

On  a  mid -April  day  of  1915  there  appeared  upon  an 
inner  page  of  The  Guardian,  an  item  of  such  overwhelm 
ing  importance,  that  when  the  editor  and  owner  read  it, 
all  other  news  of  the  day  receded  and  blurred  into  a  dull, 
colorless  mist  of  insignificance.  The  article  stated  briefly 
that  Miss  Marcia  Ames,  cousin  of  Miss  Letitia  Pritchard, 
of  ii  Montgomery  Street,  who  was  well  known  to  Fen- 
chester  society,  not  only  for  her  charm  and  beauty,  but 
also  as  being  the  only  lady  intercollegiate  golf-player  in 
the  country,  had  left  Berne,  whither  she  had  gone  after 
the  breaking-out  of  the  war,  and  was  visiting  friends  in 
Copenhagen.  Her  many  and  admiring  friends  would  be 
glad  to  learn,  etc.,  etc.,  in  the  best  society-reportorial 
formula.  After  thoroughly  absorbing  that  paragraph  into 
his  inmost  being,  Jeremy  sent  for  Buddy  Higman,  who 


264  COMMON  CAUSE 

had  now  taken  on  the  additional  duty  of  marking  each 
day's  paper,  from  the  assignment  book,  article  by  article, 
with  the  name  of  the  writer  of  each. 

" Buddy,"  said  the  editor,  "whose  is  the  Ames 
story  ?" 

This  being  an  official  query,  Buddy  made  pretense  of 
consulting  his  marked  file.  "Higman,  sir." 

"Oh!  You  wrote  it?  Did  you  have  a  letter?" 

"Yes,  sir.  But  I  did  n't  write  it  from  that.  I  would  n't 
make  a  story  out  of  a  letter  from  Her.  That 's  personal," 
said  Buddy,  proud  in  his  rigid  sense  of  ethics. 

"Then  where  did  you  get  it?" 

"I  figured  that  like  as  not  Miss  Pritchard  would  get 
one  by  the  same  mail.  So  I  went  an'  ast  her." 

"And  she  had?" 

"Yes,  sir.  I  told  her  I  was  there  for  The  Guardian  an1 
was  there  anything  she  could  give  out.  An'  she  gimme 
the  story." 

"Buddy,  if  you  don't  look  out  you  're  going  to  be  a  real 
newspaper  man  one  of  these  days!" 

"I  wisht  I  was  one  now,"  returned  the  boy  wistfully. 

"Do  you?  What  would  you  do?" 

"I  dunno,  exactly.  SomethinV 

"You'd  need  a  more  definite  policy  than  that,  son,  if 
you  were  in  the  bad  fix  of  owning  a  newspaper." 

"I'd  do  somethin',"  persisted  the  boy.  "I'd  soak  the 
Germans.  Say,  Boss,  how  old  do  you  have  to  be  to  get 
into  the  National  Guard?" 

"A  good  deal  older  than  you  are.  Why  all  this  martial 
ardor,  Buddy?" 

"That's  what  She'd  do,  if  She  was  a  man." 

"Did  the  letter  say  so?" 


COMMON  CAUSE  265 

"Yes.  Can  a  feller  —  is  it  ever  all  right  for  a  feller  to 
show  a  lady's  letter?" 

Wondering  again  as  he  had  wondered  before  whence 
this  freckled  scrub  of  a  boy  had  derived  his  instincts  of  the 
gentleman  born  and  bred,  Jeremy  answered  gravely:  "It 
might  be.  That's  for  you  to  decide,  Buddy." 

"  I  kinda  guess  She  'd  like  for  you  to  see  this."  He  dug 
out  of  his  pocket  a  crumpled  sheet,  covered  with  the 
strong,  straight,  beautiful  script  of  Marcia.  ''Read  there, 
Boss."  He  indicated  an  inner  page. 

" .  .  .or  later  it  must  come,"  the  letter  ran.  "As  soon 
as  you  are  old  enough  you  must  learn  to  be  a  soldier. 
Every  one  in  the  world  who  can,  must  learn  to  be  a  sol 
dier.  I  cannot  tell  you,  Buddy,  of  the  terrible  thing  that 
German  national  ambition  is;  how  it  reaches  out  into 
every  nation  to  make  that  nation  its  tool ;  how  it  aims  to 
overrun  the  world  and  make  it  one  vast  Germany.  You 
will  be  old  enough  soon  to  see  what  it  is  doing  in  your 
own  little  city,  so  far  away.  Perhaps  you  do  not  com 
prehend.  Perhaps  you  will  not  understand  even  what  I 
am  writing ;  but  you  may  find  some  one  on  your  paper 
who  will  know  and  will  explain." 

"I  think,  perhaps,  I  was  meant  to  see  this,  Buddy," 
interjected  Jeremy. 

"  But  I  guess  I  know  what  She  was  drivin'  at  all  right," 
replied  the  boy. 

"How  can  America  be  so  blind!"  Jeremy  read  on. 
"  How  can  its  newspapers  be  so  blind !  The  last  numbers 
of  The  Guardian  that  I  saw,  no  word  of  arousing  the  peo 
ple  to  a  sense  of  what  all  this  means.  Oh,  Buddy,  Buddy! 
If  you  were  only  a  man  and  had  a  newspaper  of  your  own ! 
I  have  written  your  aunt  about  the  books  and  ..." 


266  COMMON  CAUSE 

The  bottom  of  the  page  terminated  the  reading. 
Jeremy,  with  his  lips  set  straight  and  hard,  handed  back 
the  sheet.  The  boy  faced  him  with  a  candid  eye. 

"Boss,  you're  a  man,"  he  said. 

"Am  I?"  said  Jeremy,  more  to  himself  than  in  reply. 

"And  you  got  a  noospaper  of  your  own." 

"Not  of  my  own,  wholly." 

"Ain't  it?"  cried  Buddy,  amazed.  "Who's  in  on  it?" 

"  The  people  who  read  it,  and  believe  in  it.  It's  partly 
theirs.  The  men  I  work  with  to  help  keep  politics  straight 
and  fair.  I  have  to  think  of  them." 

Buddy  sighed.  "It  ain't  as  big  a  cinch  as  it  looks,  own- 
in'  a  paper,  is  it!" 

"Not  these  days,  son." 

"Anyway,  I  guess  She  knows,"  asseverated  the  stout 
little  loyalist.  "She's  lived  there  an'  she  oughta  know. 
What  She  says  goes,  with  me." 

The  clear  single-mindedness  of  a  boy !  How  the  editor 
of  The  Guardian,  feeling  a  thousand  years  old,  envied  his 
lowliest  assistant!  How  the  unstilled  ache  for  Marcia 
woke  and  throbbed  again  at  her  words!  She  had  begged 
him  not  wholly  to  forget  her.  Had  it  been  a  spell  laid  upon 
him  it  could  have  been  no  more  compelling.  He  wondered 
whether,  twenty  years  hence,  her  influence  would  have 
become  less  vital,  less  intimate  upon  him,  and,  wonder 
ing,  knew  that  it  would  not. 

He  went  home  deviously  by  way  of  Montgomery  Street. 

The  early  shoots  had  lanced  their  way  into  the  sun 
shine  of  the  Pritchard  garden,  and  Miss  Letitia  was  mak 
ing  her  rounds,  inspecting  for  the  winter-killed  amongst 
the  tenderer  of  her  shrubbery.  Jeremy  leaned  upon  the 
fence  saying  nothing.  There  were  reasons  why  he  felt 


COMMON  CAUSE  267 

hesitant  about  approaching  Miss  Pritchard.  In  his  cam 
paign  against  the  tax-dodgers  he  had  fallen  foul  of  old 
Madam  Taylor,  one  of  her  particular  friends. 

Shortly  after  the  publication,  Miss  Pritchard,  meeting 
Jeremy  at  her  own  front  gate  as  he  was  about  to  enter, 
had  presented  the  danger  signal  of  two  high-colored  spots 
upon  the  cheek-curves,  and  a  pair  of  specially  bright 
eyes;  also  the  theorem,  for  his  acceptance,  that  a  news 
paper  ought  to  be  in  better  business  than  attacking  and 
abusing  lone  and  defenseless  women.  Declining  to  accept 
this  theorem  without  debate,  Jeremy  was  informed  that 
Miss  Pritchard  would  disdain  thenceforth  to  harbor  The 
Guardian  upon  her  premises.  Interpreting  this  to  mean 
that  the  editor  of  that  fallen  sheet  would  be  equally  un 
welcome,  the  caller  had  departed,  divided  between  wrath 
and  melancholy.  Up  to  that  time  the  Pritchard  house  had 
been  one  of  the  few  ports  of  call  in  his  busy  but  rather 
lonely  life.  Now,  another  of  those  gossamer  links  with 
Marcia  Ames  was  severed.  Miss  Pritchard  soon  came  to 
regret  her  severity,  too;  for  the  steadfast,  unspoken,  hope 
less  devotion  of  the  boy  —  he  was  still  only  that  to  her  — 
to  the  memory  of  her  golden  girl,  had  bloomed  for  her  like 
one  of  the  flowers  in  her  old  maid's  garden. 

Now,  seeing  the  lover,  forlorn  and  mute,  outside  what 
was  once  his  paradise,  she  gave  way  to  compunction. 
But  not  wholly.  There  was  a  sting  in  her  first  words. 

"Are  you  reckoning  up  taxes  on  my  place,  Mr. 
Jeremy?" 

" That's  been  done  long  ago,"  he  said  uncompromis 
ingly. 

"  When  are  you  going  to  print  it?" 

"  As  soon  as  you  try  to  dodge  'em." 


268  COMMON  CAUSE 

He  looked  very  tired,  and  his  voice  had  lost  something 
of  the  buoyant  quality  of  youth  which  she  had  always  as 
sociated  with  him.  A  different  note  crept  into  her  own 
when  she  spoke  again. 

"I  had  a  long  letter  from  Marcia  to-day." 

"Is  she  well?"  The  tone  was  politely  formal,  but  she 
saw  the  color  rise  in  his  face  and  marked  the  pathetic 
eagerness  in  his  eyes. 

"  She 's  the  same  Marcia  Ames.  Even  to  the  name." 

He  caught  at  the  opportunity.  "She  's  not  married  yet?  " 

"  No.  Her  fianc6  is  fighting.  Somewhere  in  the  remote 
colonies,  I  believe." 

"Fiance?" 

"Surely  you  knew  that  she  was  engaged;  a  young 
cousin  of  her  stepfather's.  It  was  an  affair  of  years." 

"Not  when  she  was  here,"  Jeremy  blurted. 

Her  surprised  regard  challenged  him.  "You  seem  very- 
certain,"  she  observed. 

Jeremy  recovered  himself.  "I  had  heard  rumors,  but 
nothing  formal,"  he  said.  "  I  thought  perhaps  you  would 
have  told  me  when  it  was  announced." 

"I  assumed  that  you  knew." 

What  Miss  Pritchard  meant  was,  "I  assumed  that  she 
would  have  told  you."  She  perceived  that  there  were 
depths  in  this  affair  of  which  she  knew  little  or  nothing. 

"German  betrothals  are  curious  and  formal  things  in 
her  class,"  continued  the  old  maid.  "When  she  came 
here,  to  'see  America  first,'  I  believe  it  was  understood 
that  nothing  was  to  be  settled  until  her  return.  She  went 
back,  and  the  formalities  were  arranged.  At  the  outbreak 
of  war  her  fiance  was  somewhere  in  Africa  and,  I  believe, 
is  still  there." 


COMMON  CAUSE  269 

"I  see,"  said  Jeremy  dully. 

"Marcia  still  sees  The  Guardian."  The  spirit  of  ro 
mance  in  the  spinster  heart  would  force  the  words. 

"I  know.  And  that  helps.  Good-bye  and  thank  you." 

"Come  to  see  me  and  let's  be  friends  again,"  said  the 
warm-hearted  lady. 

Most  of  that  night  Jeremy  spent  on  the  tramp,  think 
ing  of  The  Guardian  in  terms  of  Marcia's  letter;  hag 
gardly  struggling  to  harmonize  cross-interests,  cross- 
purposes,  cross-loyalties.  Out  of  the  struggle  emerged  one 
clear  resolve.  What  next  the  progress  of  the  war  should 
produce  that  intimately  touched  his  conscience,  should  be 
the  signal,  the  release.  Upon  that  The  Guardian  should 
speak  its  owner's  mind  though  damnation  follow. 

Three  weeks  later  the  Lusitania  was  sunk. 


CHAPTER  III 

LIKE  a  portent  of  stern  events  to  come,  The  Guard 
ian's  Lusitania  editorial  laid  hold  on  the  collective 
mind  of  Fenchester.  It  was  a  hand  set  against  every 
man's  breast,  bidding  him  stop  as  he  went  about  his  occu 
pations,  and  summon  his  own  soul  to  ponder  what  a  Ger 
man  war  might  mean.  "The  Black  Flag,"  Jeremy  had 
captioned  it.  Simple  and  grim  words  were  its  medium, 
and  the  burden  of  its  charge  was  plain  murder. 

The  first  effect  was  that  of  any  profound  and  pervasive 
shock;  the  community  lay  quiet,  collecting  and  rallying 
its  forces.  Until  now,  no  newspaper  in  the  State  of  Cen- 
tralia  had  dared  lift  voice  against  the  cumulative  out 
rages  of  the  conquerors,  fearful  as  all  were  of  the  coordi 
nated  forces  of  German  sentiment,  ready  and  under  arms 
for  the  call.  To  what  the  initial  outbreak  might  spread, 
no  man  could  foretell.  It  was  not  so  much  a  high  explo 
sive  as  a  fire-bomb  that  The  Guardian  had  cast. 

The  German  press  ravened.  The  dailies  howled  for  the 
blood  of  the  dastardly  and  treacherous  Robson.  They 
called  upon  the  authorities  to  suppress  The  Guardian, 
without  troubling  to  specify  upon  what  ground.  They 
summoned  the  Governor  to  cut  loose  from  a  supporter  so 
violent,  so  vicious,  so  filled  with  the  spirit  of  hatred  and 
contention.  The  German  religious  press  backed  up  the 
attack,  and  even  improved  upon  it.  It  declared  The 
Guardian  and  its  owner  enemies  to  an  all-wise,  all-benefi 
cent,  and  all-German  Gott,  and  shrieked  inquisitorially 
for  a  holy  ban  upon  it.  All  of  which,  combined,  failed  to 


COMMON  CAUSE  271 

keep  Jeremy  awake  o'  nights.  Indeed,  it  had  quite  the 
reverse  effect.  For  the  first  time  in  months  he  fell  asleep 
at  peace  with  his  own  soul,  and  awoke  with  untainted, 
new-found  courage  to  face  whatever  the  day  might  bring. 

One  day  brought  Cassius  Kimball,of  The  Bellair  Jour 
nal.  He  was  a  slow,  cautious,  weary,  high-minded,  and 
plucky  man  of  forty-five  who  looked  sixty  behind  his 
lines  and  his  glasses,  and  he  eyed  Jeremy,  his  devoted  ad 
mirer,  with  a  benign  but  puzzled  expression  as  he  sat  in 
the  office  spare  chair. 

"I  wish  I  'd  said  it  first,"  was  his  opening  remark. 

"I  wish  you  had,"  returned  Jeremy,  quite  honestly. 

"  I  never  say  anything  first.  That 's  why  I  'm  really  not 
much  good." 

Jeremy  laughed.  From  the  most  independent  and  bat 
tle-scarred  veteran  of  Middle  Western  journalism,  this 
was  funny. 

''It's  a  fact,  though,"  continued  the  tired  voice.  " I  al 
ways  think  too  slow.  What  are  you  going  to  do  next?" 

"Next?" 

"About  the  Lusitania  issue.  You  Ve  started  it  in  Cen- 
tralia.  Nothing  can  put  out  that  fire.  It  may  die  down 
and  only  smoulder.  But  the  embers  will  be  there.  And 
nobody  can  tell  when  they'll  reach  a  powder  magazine. 
Have  you  seen  the  recent  Eastern  papers?" 

"Some  of  them." 

"A  lot  of  them  are  yelling  for  war.  It 's  going  to  be  put 
up  to  the  President  pretty  stiff.  What  are  you  going  to  do 
about  that?" 

The  gravity  of  the  tone,  almost  amounting  to  defer 
ence,  made  Jeremy  tingle.  Here  was  the  greatest  journal 
istic  power  in  Centralia,  a  man  whose  clarity  and  courage 


272  COMMON  CAUSE 

of  spirit  had  won  for  him  an  almost  hierarchic  ascendency 
in  his  profession,  ascribing  such  importance  to  the  course 
of  The  Guardian  that  he  had  taken  the  four-hour  journey 
from  Bellair  to  consult  its  owner.  To  do  Jeremy  justice, 
his  pride  was  for  the  paper,  semi-impersonal,  rather  than 
for  himself.  To  the  question  he  had  no  ready  answer. 

"I  had  n't  thought  it  out  yet.  What's  your  idea?" 

Kimball  took  off  his  glasses  and  wiped  them  carefully. 
His  eyes,  without  them,  seemed  squinted  and  anxious. 
He  drummed  on  the  desk  a  moment  before  replying. 

"There's  a  man  down  in  Washington,"  he  said  in  his 
gentle,  reasonable  voice,  "with  a  hard  job  on  his  hands. 
He  has  a  lot  of  decisions  to  make  every  day.  We  nev/s- 
paper  men  have  the  same  kind  of  decisions,  but  where 
ours  affect  a  few  thousands,  his  affect  a  hundred  millions. 
From  now  on  he 's  going  to  have  bigger  decisions  put  up  to 
him.  He  can  lift  his  hand  and  there  '11  be  war  to-morrow, 
and  six  months  from  to-morrow  there  '11  be  thousands  of 
us  back  home  here  in  mourning.  It's  a  hard  decision, 
Mr.  Robson.  You  and  I  did  our  best  to  beat  the  Presi 
dent  for  election.  We've  differed  from  him  in  many 
things.  But  this  is  n't  politics.  It's  something  else  now. 
And,  knowing  what  he's  got  to  face,  I  don't  feel  exactly 
like  yelling  in  the  President's  ears."  He  resumed  his 
glasses.  "Seen  the  Governor  since  your  editorial?" 

"No.  He's  up  at  his  home  in  Spencerville." 

" It's  going  to  be  put  up  to  him  pretty  hard,  too.  Your 
outbreak  is  responsible." 

"How?" 

"The  German  legislative  outfit  in  Bellair,"  said  Kim- 
ball,  who  had  an  uncanny  knack  of  knowing  things  before 
they  were  ready  to  be  known,  "is  cooking  up  a  bill  to  off- 


COMMON  CAUSE  273 

set  your  editorial.  They  intend  to  put  the  State  on  record. 
The  bill  will  call  on  the  President  and  Congress  to  declare 
that  any  American  sailing  on  a  ship  of  a  belligerent  na 
tion  forfeits  all  right  to  the  protection  of  his  own  coun 
try." 

"  What  will  The  Journal  do  about  that?" 

"Fight  it." 

"Can  we  beat  it?" 

"No.   But  the  Governor  can." 

"Will  he?" 

"Ah!  What  do  you  think?  You're  closer  to  him  than 
any  one  else." 

Jeremy  shook  his  head.  "  Not  on  the  war.  I  don't  even 
know  what  he 's  thinking,  most  of  the  time.  Your  paper 
has  more  influence  with  him  than  The  Guardian.  If  I 
could  think  of  Martin  Embree  as  being  afraid  of  any 
body,  I  'd  say  he  was  a  little  afraid  of  The  Journal." 

"Of  course,  he  doesn't  want  to  lose  us,"  answered 
Kimball  reflectively.  "  He  can't  afford  to  lose  us.  But 
there  isn't  much  danger  of  that."  He  rose.  "I '11  send 
you  a  word  before  the  bill  is  ready.  They  intend  to  spring 
it  suddenly." 

Jeremy  thanked  him,  and  after  he  had  left,  sat  down  to 
think  out  the  Governor's  situation.  He  could  appreciate 
its  perplexities.  He  could  foresee  that  Embree  would 
blame  him  for  stirring  up  dissension  unnecessarily,  when 
he  might  have  held  his  peace.  Therefore  he  was  prepared 
for  a  difficult  interview  when,  on  the  Governor's  return, 
he  was  invited  to  lunch  with  him.  But  "Smiling  Mart's" 
smile  was  as  open  and  friendly  as  ever. 

"You  dipped  your  pen  in  earthquake  and  eclipse  that 
time,  my  boy,"  he  observed. 


274  COMMON  CAUSE 

"I  had  to  speak  out  or  blow  up,  Martin." 

"  Therefore  you  did  both.  Up  in  the  Northern  Tier 
you're  not  precisely  popular." 

"No.  The  circulation  reports  show  that.  We're  get 
ting  two  or  three  dozen  stop-the-paper  orders  from  there 
per  day." 

"I've  done  my  best  for  you,  there.  But  I  can't  hold 
the  more  rabid  elements.  There's  one  saving  grace, 
though." 

"That's—?" 

"You've  gone  no  further  than  criticism.  You  did  n't 
even  hint  at  war." 

"  And  I  'm  not  going  to.  Not  on  this  issue." 

Martin  Embree  drew  a  long,  slow,  luxurious  breath. 
"Thank  God  for  that!  At  least  they  can't  identify  us 
with  the  war-howlers  in  the  East." 

Jeremy  passed  the  "us."  "What's  your  view  of  the 
Lusitania  sinking,  Martin?" 

"It's  damnable.   But  it's  war." 

"German  war.  They're  holding  jollifications  over  it 
here.  There's  to  be  one  to-night  at  the  Deutscher  Club." 

"Not  a  formal  thing?"  cried  the  Governor. 

"Bausch  and  Henry  Vogt,  the  florist,  are  engineering 
it,  I  understand.  It  is  n't  exactly  a  club  affair." 

"Ah!  That's  not  so  bad.  You're  not  going  to  print 
anything  about  it?" 

"I'd  print  their  remarks  about  The  Guardian  if  I 
could  get 'em,"  grinned  Jeremy.  "They'd  be  spicy.  But 
of  course  they  won't  admit  reporters." 

"What  goes  on  at  a  private  dinner  is  nobody's  busi 
ness,"  said  the  relieved  official.  "So  you  don't  need  to 
stir  up  any  more  trouble  for  yourself  on  that  score.  Some 


COMMON  CAUSE  275 

of  the  smaller  German  organizations  have  been  passing 
resolutions  about  The  Guardian.  That  will  cut  into  your 
circulation,  won't  it?" 

"To  some  extent.   But  we're  holding  up." 

"  Just  keep  your  head,  Jem,  and  we'll  be  all  right,"  ad 
vised  the  Governor  anxiously.  "Don't  forget  that  we've 
got  measures  to  put  through  here  at  home  more  impor 
tant  than  a  war  four  thousand  miles  away.  Harvey  Rap- 
pelje,  of  the  Economics  Department  of  the  University,  is 
working  on  the  Corporation  Control  Bill  now.  I  'm  going 
to  have  him  talk  it  over  with  you  when  it's  ready." 

"Glad  to  see  him.  Speaking  of  bills,  Martin,  what  do 
you  know  of  a  bill  drawn  by  a  bunch  of  Bellair  Germans, 
to  keep  Americans  off  British  passenger  ships?" 

"Nothing.  And  I  don't  want  to  until  I  have  to." 

"That'll  be  soon,"  prophesied  Jeremy.  "  I  'm  going  to 
fight  that." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  doubted  the  other.  "There 
are  two  sides  to  all  these  questions,  remember." 

"There  are  two  sides  to  the  war.  Admitted.  But 
there 's  only  one  side  to  Americanism.  And  this  is  a  ques 
tion  of  American  rights." 

"But  is  it  quite  fair  to  our  Cause,  to  endanger  it  now 
for  an  issue  that  you  are  n't  called  on  to  meet?" 

"If  our  cause  isn't  American,  then  The  Guardian  is 
going  to  quit  it,"  retorted  Jeremy  heatedly.  "What's 
more,  Martin,  if  I  ever  had  to  suspect  that  when  the  issue 
comes  you  would  n't  be  for  America  against  — " 
.  "Stop  right  there!"  the  other  adjured  him,  laughing. 
"When  you  hear  me  speak  an  un-American  word  or  see  me 
do  an  un-American  act,  it  will  be  time  enough  to  worry. 
But  in  the  business  now  on  hand  we  need  those  German 


276  COMMON  CAUSE 

votes,  and  I  '11  do  just  as  much  to  hold  them  as  you  can  to 
drive  them  away." 

On  his  return  trip  to  the  office,  Jeremy  encountered 
Eli  Wade,  the  Boot  &  Shoe  Surgeon,  and  Nick  Milliken. 
Wade  shook  hands  with  him,  and  looked  at  his  feet. 

"  You're  standing  solid  now,  Mr.  Robson,"  he  said.  "I 
went  on  my  knees  and  thanked  God  when  I  read  your 
editorial." 

"Not  me,"  put  in  Milliken.  "That  ain't  my  God.  I 
don't  worship  Mars." 

"Don't  heed  him,  Mr.  Robson.  He'll  fight,  too,  when 
the  time  comes." 

"In  a  capitalistic  war?  Do  I  look  as  soft  a  mark  as 
that!"  retorted  the  Socialist  disdainfully. 

"  In  an  American  war,"  said  Eli  Wade. 

"Don't  you  think  it!  Nine  tenths  of  the  people  are 
dead  against  war.  There 's  a  bill  coming  up  this  session 
that'll  tell  the  war-birds  where  they  get  off." 

"Where  did  you  learn  about  it?"  asked  Jeremy. 

"The  Party  is  going  to  back  it.  It'll  carry  without  any 
trouble.  The  yellow-bellies  won't  dare  kick  for  fear  of  the 
German  vote." 

"Then  they  might  as  well  raise  the  German  flag  over 
the  Capitol,"  declared  the  Boot  &  Shoe  Surgeon  fiercely. 

"German  nothing!  We'll  have  the  red  flag  of  brother 
hood  there  yet,  Eli." 

Considerations  of  policy  delayed  the  presentation  of 
the  bill.  When  it  was  offered,  Jeremy  put  it  on  record  all 
over  the  State,  in  an  editorial  of  protest,  dubbing  it  the 
"Surrender  Bill."  But  no  leader  could  be  found  in  the 
Legislature  who  dared  back  this  bold  course.  German  in 
timidation  had  done  its  work  too  well.  The  most  that  the 


COMMON  CAUSE  277 

opponents  of  the  bill  ventured  was  to  obstruct  its  passage 
by  parliamentary  obstacles.  Even  that  much  brought 
down  upon  the  offender  the  threats  of  an  organized 
Deutschtum.  But  the  matter  bumped  and  dawdled  along 
the  legislative  road  all  that  spring  and  summer  before  the 
bill  passed  to  a  final  reading.  Jeremy  published  his  last 
editorial  on  the  subject  "Hands  Off  the  President,"  sol 
emnly  warning  the  Legislature  against  interfering  in  in 
ternational  matters  of  which  they  could  know  little  or 
nothing.  The  Record  replied  with  a  scathing  "leader" 
denouncing  The  Guardian,  under  the  caption  "An  In 
sult  to  Our  State,"  the  purport  of  which  was  that  Cen- 
tralia  possessed  the  patriotism,  statesmanship,  and  wis 
dom  embodied  in  its  Legislature  to  lay  out  the  course  for 
the  ship  of  state  through  the  most  perilous  waters.  It  was 
the  kind  of  claptrap  which  rallies  pseudo-patriotism  and 
emboldens  vacillating  politicians. 

The  bill  passed  in  the  fall  by  a  ratio  of  two  to  one. 
Deutschtum  rejoiced  exuberantly. 

Jeremy  hurried  to  the  Executive  Mansion.  "Governor, 
are  you  going  to  veto  that  bill?  " 

"Is  this  for  publication,  Mr.  Editor?"  smiled  the  Gov 
ernor. 

"Yes." 

"Then  I  will  say  that  the  matter  is  still  under  advise 
ment." 

"It's  a  rank  surrender,  Martin." 

"  It 's  a  silly  bill,  Jem.  But  where 's  the  harm?  Let  'em 
blow  off  steam." 

"Then  you  won't  veto  it?" 

"I  certainly  shall  not.  Does  The  Guardian  propose  to 
scarify  me?  " 


278  COMMON  CAUSE 

"My  Lord,  Martin!  A  matter  as  serious  as  this  —  I 
don't  see  how  you  can  take  it  so  lightly." 

"  Philosophy,  my  boy.  With  our  Corporation  Bill 
coming  on  soon  I  'm  certainly  not  going  to  compromise  its 
chances  by  flying  in  the  face  of  the  whole  German-Ameri 
can  vote." 

"But  on  a  question  of  national  honor  — " 

" National  flapdoodle!  Our  national  honor  is  safe 
enough  as  long  as  we  keep  our  heads.  Will  you  see  Rap- 
pelje  to-morrow  about  the  Corporation  Control  Bill?" 

"Yes.  To-morrow  afternoon." 

The  lean  and  dry  authority  on  economics,  an  ardent 
apostle  of  Embree's  policies  and  his  chief  adviser  on  all 
corporation  matters,  spent  an  hour  in  the  editorial  den 
of  The  Guardian.  All  points  of  the  bill  were  carefully  dis 
cussed.  Jeremy  committed  his  unqualified  editorial  sup 
port  to  it. 

"Will  you  forward  it  to  Mr.  Kimball,  of  The  Bellair 
Journal?"  asked  the  professor. 

"Yes,  if  you  wish." 

"We  can  be  sure  of  his  aid?" 

"Probably.  Though  he  will  be  very  sore  on  Governor 
Embree  if  the  'Surrender  Bill'  is  signed." 

"That  has  no  bearing  whatsoever  upon  this  measure." 

"Only  as  a  matter  of  political  barter  and  trade.  What 
do  you  think  of  the  'Surrender  Bill'  yourself,  Professor 
Rappelje?" 

"  I  was  requested  to  come  here  to  discuss  the  Corpora 
tion  Control  Act,"  returned  the  economist  austerely. 

"Another  dodger!"  thought  Jem  disgustedly,  as  he 
bade  his  visitor  a  somewhat  curt  good-day. 

Such  advisement  as  Governor  Embree  bestowed  upon 


COMMON  CAUSE  279 

the  "Surrender  Bill"  was  brief.  Two  days  after  its  pas 
sage  he  signed  it  without  comment.  Jeremy's  editorial  on 
the  final  step  in  the  enactment  was  dignified  and  regret 
ful,  but  carefully  guarded  against  offense.  It  indicated 
plainly  that  there  would  be  no  split  between  The  Guard 
ian  and  the  Governor. 

On  the  morning  following  the  signature,  as  Jeremy  was 
at  his  desk,  Andrew  Galpin  burst  in  upon  him,  his  face 
vivid  with  emotions  in  which  unholy  glee,  such  as  might 
be  evoked  by  some  Satanic  jest,  seemed  to  predominate. 

"Come  out  here!"  he  gasped. 

"What's  the  matter?"  demanded  his  Boss,  struggling 
against  a  powerful  grip. 

"Come  out.   I  can't  tell  it.  You've  got  to  see  it." 

Galpin  nurried  him  downstairs  and  out  upon  the  side 
walk.  The  street  was  full  of  people  with  faces  turned' 
upward  and  to  the  northeast  where  Capitol  Hill  reared 
its  height.  The  typical  characteristic  of  the  faces  was  a 
staringly  incredulous  eye  and  a  fallen  jaw.  Jeremy  fol 
lowed  the  line  of  vision  to  the  dome  wherefrom  projected 
the  State's  official  flagstaff. 

In  place  of  the  Stars  and  Stripes  there  blew,  stiff  in  the 
brisk  wind,  the  banner  of  Imperial  Germany. 


CHAPTER  IV 

PHENOMENA  do  not  occur  upon  legislative  flag- 
staffs  without  due  process.  The  astonishing  mani 
festation  of  a  sardonic  intent  above  the  unconscious  law 
makers  of  Centralia  was  not  the  fruit  of  magic,  black  or 
white,  but  of  a  simple  and  easy  substitution.  The  legiti 
mate  ornament  of  the  staff  was  lowered  each  evening  into 
a  box,  where  it  lay,  still  attached  to  its  halyards,  and  was 
raised  therefrom  in  the  morning  by  an  assistant  janitor 
who,  operating  the  rope  from  within  the  dome,  never  saw 
the  flag  as  it  mounted  to  the  peak.  What  more  easy,  since 
the  dome  was  always  open  and  unguarded,  than  for  some 
demoniac-souled  satirist  to  ascend  to  the  repository  and 
substitute  an  alien  banner,  always  supposing  him  able  to 
lay  possessive  hands  upon  such  a  thing?  Since  the  Lusi- 
tania  rejoicings,  German  flags  had  blossomed  broadcast 
in  the  streets  of  Fenchester,  and  each  new  submarine  suc 
cess  had  brought  them  forth  afresh.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
the  satirical  substituter  had  borrowed  the  Deutscher 
Club's  proud  insignium. 

How  would  the  German -Americans  take  it?  That  was 
the  first  question  in  the  minds  of  Jeremy  Robson  and  An 
drew  Galpin  alike.  When  the  first  shock  of  amazement 
wore  off,  it  began  to  appear  that  they  were  taking  it  with 
a  certain  gusto.  A  joke?  Oh,  certainly!  But  a  joke  with 
a  deserved  sting  in  it  for  the  "Know-Nothings,"  the 
jingo-patriots  who  could  admit  no  other  nationality  than 
their  own  to  any  rightful  say  in  American  affairs.  Pri 
vately  they  were  much  inclined  to  chuckle.  The  fore- 


COMMON  CAUSE  281 

handed  among  them  hastened  forth  with  cameras  to  per 
petuate  the  spicy  relish  of  their  flag  exalted  in  the  high 
place  of  the  State.  While  the  click  of  shutters  was  at 
its  height,  the  flag  came  down.  Somebody  in  the  Main 
Square  shouted  "Hoch  der  Kaiser!"  and  there  was  a 
burst  of  laughter  and  applause. 

But  for  that,  casual  and  insignificant  as  it  was,  Jeremy 
Robson  might  have  treated  the  matter  tactfully,  or  jocu 
larly,  as  did  The  Record.  But  that  heavy,  Teutonic 
mirth  roused  a  dogged  wrath  within  him.  What  he  com 
posed  for  a  "box"  on  that  evening's  editorial  page  was 
unpleasant  writing  and  extremely  unpleasant  reading. 
There  were  but  few  sentences,  but  they  stung.  And  that 
which  rankled  was  the  suggestion  that  the  insult  to  the 
State  and  the  Nation  was  fittingly  typified  in  the  flag 
from  that  organization  which  had  jubilated  in  wine  and 
song  over  the  murder  of  American  women  and  children 
aboard  the  Lusitania. 

Before  the  editorial  had  been  out  two  hours  there  were 
rumors  of  a  mob  that  was  to  be  raised  against  The  Guard 
ian.  Jeremy  returned  to  the  office.  So  did  Galpin ;  also 
Verrall,  white  with  consternation  and  chagrin  over  the 
reckless  challenge  of  the  editorial  which  could  not  fail  to 
prejudice  the  circulation  and  advertising  of  the  paper; 
and  a  dozen  other  of  the  staff.  At  eight  o'clock  the 
rhythm  of  marching  feet  sounded,  and  the  tumult  of 
voices.  Five  hundred  undergraduates  from  Old  Central 
massed  in  the  street  before  the  office  and  gave  the  Uni 
versity's  three  times  three  for  The  Guardian  and  its  owner. 
The  rumor  had  come  to  them.  They  were  there  to  tackle 
any  mob  that  arrived  seeking  trouble.  None  material 
ized.  The  students  stayed  and  sang  and  cheered  until 


282  COMMON  CAUSE 

midnight,  and  then  dispersed.  More  than  the  protection 
offered,  to  those  of  The  Guardian,  was  the  proof  that 
Young  America  at  least  was  still  American  to  the  core, 
without  taint  of  doubt  or  hyphen ! 

The  mob-rumor  had  been  a  canard.  Organizations  such 
as  the  Deutscher  Club  do  not  raise  mobs.  They  sit  in 
solemn  conclave,  when  action  is  called  for,  and  appoint 
proper  committees.  Insult  gross  and  profound  having 
been  offered  Fenchester's  leading  social  organization,  its 
president  summoned  the  Board  of  Governors,  which  in 
turn  appointed  a  Special  Committee  with  instructions. 
The  first  act  of  the  committee  was  to  advertise  a  liberal 
reward  for  the  "apprehension  of  the  criminal  miscreant" 
—  to  such  heights  of  expressiveness  did  righteous  indig 
nation  run  —  who  had  filched  the  club's  flag.  The  second 
was  to  send  a  sub-committee  to  call  upon  Mr.  Jeremy 
Robson,  owner  and  responsible  editor  of  that  libertine 
sheet,  The  Guardian.  Chance  may  or  may  not  have 
dictated  that  two  of  the  committee,  Arnold  Blasius, 
the  hatter,  and  Nicholas  Engel,  the  grocer,  should  be 
important  local  advertisers.  The  chairman  was  Emil 
Bausch. 

Forewarned  of  their  coming,  Jeremy  had  Andrew  Gal- 
pin  on  hand.  The  two  young  makers  of  The  Guardian, 
shirt-sleeved  and  alert,  received  the  black-coated  delega 
tion  of  clubmen,  formal  and  accusing,  in  the  inner  den. 

"We  have  come  to  demand  a  full  retragtion,"  Emil 
Bausch  opened  the  ball. 

Unhappily,  since  his  first  interview  with  that  digni 
tary,  Jeremy  had  been  invariably  afflicted  with  mingled 
exasperation  and  amusement  at  Bausch's  every  action. 
The  apostle  of  Deutschtum  roused  within  Jeremy  an  im- 


COMMON  CAUSE  ,    283 

pulse  of  perversity  which  flatly  refused  to  take  the  heavy 
German  seriously. 

"  All  right.  Go  ahead  and  do  it." 

"Do  what?"  Bausch's  eyes  goggled  at  the  editor  sus 
piciously. 

"  Do  what  you  came  to  do.    Make  your  demand." 

"I  do  do  it." 

"You  make  a  formal  demand  on  behalf  of  the 
Deutscher  Club  for  a  retraction  of  my  editorial?" 

"We  do." 

"Declined,  with  the  editor's  thanks." 

Mr.  Bausch's  neck  showed  signs  of  swelling  beyond  the 
confines  of  his  collar.  "You  refuse  to  accebd  the  rebre- 
sentations  of  this  commiddee?"  he  inquired,  with  a  thick 
ening  accent. 

"  Don't  know.   Let 's  hear  'em." 

The  chairman  produced  from  the  official  pocket  a  docu 
ment  which  he  proceeded  to  render  vocally.  It  was  quite 
grave  and  awful  in  verbiage,  and  there  was  a  great  deal  of 
it,  rising  through  a  spiral  of  whereas-es  to  a  climax  of 
denunciation.  At  the  conclusion  the  editor  held  out  his 
hand. 

"If  you  please." 

"You  want  this?"  queried  Mr.  Bausch  doubtfully. 
"What  for?" 

"For  to-morrow's  paper." 

"You  wish  to  publish  it?  Why?" 

A  glint  appeared  in  Jeremy's  eye.  "It's  so  prettily 
worded,"  he  explained  with  sweet  simplicity. 

Bausch  turned  the  characterization  over  in  his  heavy 
mind.  "Pretty,"  he  said.  "Pretty?  I  do  not  think  — " 

"He's  making  a  fool  of  you,  Mr.  Chairman,"  broke  in 


284  COMMON  CAUSE 

Engel,  a  little,  neat,  nervous  man.  He  turned  on  Jeremy. 
"You  insult  our  club  and  now  you  insult  us." 

''Apropos  of  insults,"  retorted  Jeremy:  "what  about 
this  document  that  Mr.  Bausch  has  just  read  so  expres 
sively?  Murder  seems  to  be  about  the  only  thing  that 
is  n't  charged  in  it.  Would  you  call  that  a  testimonial  of 
regard?" 

"Consider  the  provocation,"  said  Blasius.  "Be  square 
about  this  thing,  Mr.  Robson." 

"Give  me  a  chance,"  returned  the  editor  promptly. 
"Don't  begin  by  holding  a  gun  to  my  head." 

"The  case  is  blain,"  stated  Bausch  in  his  heavy  ac 
cents.  "You  cannot  deny  the  editorial  charching  that  we 
made  a  festivity  over  the  Lusitania." 

"Evidently  not." 

"We  demand  a  retragtion  of  that." 

"On  what  ground?" 

"  Because  it  was  an  outrache  on  a  high-toned,  represent 
ative  organization,  a  private — " 

"Was  n't  it  true? "  Andrew  Galpin's  sharp-edged  voice 
injected  a  new  and  brisker  element. 

"  Huh?  "  The  interrogation  seemed  to  have  been  jolted 
out  of  Chairman  Bausch 's  volume  from  somewhere  be 
low  the  Adam's  apple. 

"Was  n't  it  true  that  there  was  a  dinner  at  the  club  to 
celebrate  the  Lusitania?" 

"That  is  not  the  question." 

"It's  my  question." 

"It's  the  only  question,"  put  in  Jeremy. 

"  You  refuse  to  apologize  — " 

"For  commenting  on  fact?  Certainly." 

"While  we're  on  the  subject,"  pursued  Galpin,  "is  n't 


COMMON  CAUSE  285 

it  true  that  Professor  Brender,  of  Old  Central,  came  in 
when  the  dinner  was  half  over,  and  gave  you  all  hell  for 
pulling  such  a  rotten  stunt?" 

"Gott  im  Himmel!"  muttered  Blasius.  He  turned  to 
Bausch.  "Is  that  true?" 

"That  he  said  his  heart  was  all  for  Germany,  and  that 
if  submarine  warfare  was  necessary  to  her  success  it  must 
go  on;  but  that  the  man  who  rejoiced  over  its  necessary 
tragedies  was  a  reckless  fool  who  put  every  decent  Ger 
man-American  in  a  false  light?  Isn't  that  true?"  con 
tinued  the  relentless  voice  of  Galpin. 

"Are  you  going  to  prind  that?"  muttered  Bausch. 

"A  newspaper  doesn't  print  everything  it  hears.  If 
we  could  have  verified  it,  we'd  have  printed  it,  at  the 
time." 

"We  shall  come  back  to  the  point,"  said  the  chairman, 
recovering  himself.  "The  Guardian  editorial  is  an  affront 
to  a  respected  and  valuable  element  of  the  community." 

"We  don't  respect  child-and-women  murderers," 
flashed  Jeremy,  "nor  those  who  honor  them." 

"It  all  comes  to  this,  Mr.  Robson."  This  was  Blasius. 
"Is  your  paper  for  or  against  Germany  in  this  war?" 

"The  Guardian  is  neutral." 

"Neutral!"  snorted  Bausch.   "A  straddler." 

"Is  that  editorial  neutral?"  demanded  Engel. 

"Not  neutral  as  regards  piracy,"  answered  its  writer 
steadily.  "Neutral  as  regards  legitimate  warfare." 

"Of  which  you  are  the  jutch,"  sneered  Bausch. 

"So  far  as  my  paper  is  concerned." 

Bausch  returned  doggedly  to  the  charge.  "The 
Deutscher  Club  is  a  private  organization  of  gentlemen. 
For  what  goes  on  within  its  doors  we  are  not  resbonsible 


286  COMMON  CAUSE 

to  any  outsider.  The  Guardian  has  traduced  and  defamed 
us—" 

" Sounds  like  an  action  for  libel,"  interpolated  Galpin. 
"Who  drew  that  up:  Judge  Dana?" 

Again  the  chairman  gulped  in  unpleasant  surprise.  But 
he  recovered  and  continued:  " —  and  in  the  name  of  the 
club  we  demand  a  full  and  fitting  apology  — " 

"Hold  on!"  cried  Jeremy.  "It  was  a  retraction  just 
now." 

"Retragtion  or  apology,"  amended  the  baited  chair 
man.  "It  is  all  the  same." 

"Quite  different.  A  retraction  admits  an  untruth.  An 
apology  merely  says  we're  sorry." 

"I  guess  either  will  do,"  muttered  Engel  uncertainly, 
perceiving  that  matters  were  not  improving  by  discus 
sion.  "We'll  leave  it  to  you  which." 

Jeremy  stood  up  significantly.  "Neither,"  said  he. 

The  other  two  committeemen  led  out  their  chairman 
whose  Adam's  apple,  though  pumping  furiously,  was 
missing  fire  so  far  as  vocal  result  was  concerned.  Their 
excited  interchange  of  views  died  away  in  the  hall. 

"I  guess  we've  invited  Old  Miss  Trouble  in  to  tea  this 
time,  sure,"  observed  Galpin. 

"You  didn't  tell  me  about  the  Brender  outbreak, 
Andy." 

"You  were  away  at  the  time  and  had  enough  troubles, 
anyway.  We  could  n't  get  it  in  any  such  shape  that  I 
dared  print  it." 

"Would  n't  Brender  talk?" 

"Tried  him.  Tight  like  a  clam.  Murray,  who  was  as 
signed  to  tackle  him,  said  he  looked  like  a  man  who  had 
lost  something." 


COMMON  CAUSE  287 

"His  country,  maybe,"  surmised  Jeremy. 

"Ay-ah.  I  would  n't  wonder.  I  tell  you,  Boss,  there's 
a  type  of  German-American  that  is  going  through  hell 
and  out  the  other  end  before  this  thing  is  over.  Me,  I  'm 
glad  I  'm  not  one ! " 

"I'd  rather  be  that  kind  than  belong  to  the  Bausch 
species,  though.  Let's  start  a  Back-to-Germany  move 
ment  in  The  Guardian,  Andy,  and  nominate  Bausch  for 
the  first  departure.  Would  n't  that  qualify  us  for  the 
Suicide  Club!" 

"Don't  trouble  yourself,  Boss.  The  Butchers  will  save 
us  the  trouble  of  suicide,  if  they  can." 

And  on  the  following  day,  he  bore  the  news  of  the  first 
attack  to  his  chief. 

"Boss,  prepare!  The  blow  has  fell!"  he  proclaimed 
tragically. 

"Who's  been  denouncing  us  now?" 

"Worse.  We're  excommunicated.  The  Deutscher 
Club  has  expelled  the  paper  from  its  sacred  precincts. 
Out  we  go,  lock,  stock,  and  barrel:  bell,  book,  and  candle. 
Two  whole  copies  lost  to  circulation  at  one  swoop." 

"Mild,  Andy, mild!  Yen-all's  got  a  list  of  thirty-seven 
quits  by  this  morning's  mail.  He'll  die  of  heart-failure 
superinduced  by  bad  circulation  if  you  and  I  don't  stop 
running  this  paper  into  the  ground." 

"VerralPs  an  earnest  soul,"  observed  the  general 
manager,  "but  he's  always  on  the  borderland  of  hys 
teria,  and  if  an  advertiser  looks  cross  at  him,  over  he 
flops." 

"Yes.  He  had  an 'attack  this  morning.  Blasius  is 
out." 

"Entirely?" 


288  COMMON  CAUSE 

"Five  inches  double;  three  times  a  week.  Gone  glim 
mering  into  the  jaws  of  Hun  ruthlessness." 

"Any  one  else?" 

"Threats  of  reduced  space.  If  only  they  dared,  Andy, 
what  would  n't  they  do  to  us!  But  they  need  us  in  their 
business." 

Confirmation  in  part  of  VerralPs  dismal  forebodings 
came  from  Arthur  Betts,  of  Kelter  &  Betts,  who  dropped 
in  to  see  Jeremy.  Since  the  first  struggle  with  the  Re 
tailers'  Association,  Betts  had  proved  himself  a  "good 
sport,"  as  he  would  have  wished  to  have  it  put,  in  ad 
mitting  The  Guardian's  right  to  editorial  independence, 
which  did  not  in  any  measure  inhibit  him  from  trying 
to  "put  one  over"  on  the  paper  whenever  he  thought 
that  he  saw  a  chance.  That  was  part  of  the  game. 
Though  usually  worsted,  he  sometimes  succeeded  in 
landing  a  bit  of  free  advertising.  But,  like  a  sound  op 
ponent,  he  had  become  a  strong  partisan  of  Jeremy  as 
against  the  field. 

"You  sure  put  it  to  the  German  lot  in  that  editorial," 
he  observed  with  a  shining  eye. 

"They  had  it  coming  to  them,"  returned  Jeremy. 

"Right!  But  they're  sore  clean  through.  Any  cancel 
lations?" 

"Blasius." 

"Yep.  He's  a  dachshund  all  right.  Do  you  know 
what  they're  stirring  up  in  the  Retailers'  Association?" 

"No." 

"This  is  rank  treason  and  betrayal  of  secrets  and  so  on; 
but  they  're  talking  down  your  circulation.  Are  you  los 
ing  much?" 

"Some." 


COMMON  CAUSE  289 

"Enough  for  'em  to  demand  a  lower  rate?" 

"They  can  demand.  They  won't  get  it.  We've  got  a 
comfortable  margin  left." 

"Well,  of  course  I'm  for  it,  officially.  Here's  another 
point.  Some  of  our  customers  are  beginning  to  talk  to 
the  salespeople  and  department  heads  about  The  Guard 
ian.  'Do  you  advertise  in  that  paper?  WThat  do  you  do 
that  for?  It's  no  good.  Waste  of  money.  I  would  n't  be 
lieve  a  thing  I  read  in  it,  not  even  an  ad.'  You  know  the 
line  of  stuff." 

Jeremy  did  know  it  and  knew  how  dangerous  it  was. 
"Who  are  they?"  he  asked. 

"Hans,  Fritz,  and  Wilhelm,"  grinned  the  other.  "They 
are  n't  scaring  us.  But  you  may  get  a  kick-back  from 
some  of  the  other  stores  that  are  timider  than  we  are." 

"  I  '11  keep  an  eye  out,  Betts,"  said  the  editor. 

Thus  the  anti-Guardian  campaign  simmered,  bearing 
testimony  to  a  steady  fire  and  a  slow  boiling  beneath  the 
surface.  Said  Judge  Selden  Dana  to  Montrose  Clark: 

"Our  young  cub  of  The  Guardian  is  getting  in  wronger 
every  day.  I  think  a  polite  call  is  about  due." 


CHAPTER  V 

DEUTSCHTUM  moves  slowly,  because  it  moves 
methodically.  No  general  and  open  manifestation 
against  The  Guardian  had  followed  the  Lusitania  edi 
torial.  None  retaliated  for  the  attack  on  the  "  Surrender 
Bill."  But,  little  by  little,  there  became  apparent  a  guer 
rilla  warfare  upon  the  paper.  Manufacturers  of  certain 
products  widely  circulated  in  the  State,  particularly  beers 
and  soft  drinks,  began  to  withdraw  or  decrease  their 
advertising.  In  every  instance  it  was  noteworthy  that 
these  concerns  bore  German  names.  Furthermore,  small 
and  casual  advertisers  of  Teutonic  cast  of  name  and 
mind  —  For  Sale,  Want  Ads,  and  the  general  line  of 
" classified"  —  switched  from  The  Guardian  to  the  more 
amenable  Record. 

Despite  all  this  The  Guardian  made  a  clear  and  pretty 
profit  in  the  busy  year  of  1915.  Ups  and  downs  marked 
the  course  of  its  circulation,  but  the  general  tendency  was 
upward.  The  Retailers'  Association  had  given  over  any 
hopes  of  a  successful  drive  against  its  advertising  rates. 
Indeed,  the  best  they  could  look  for  was  that  there  would 
not  be  another  increase.  Success,  however,  had  entailed 
special  expenses.  A  new  press  had  been  installed.  The 
working  force  was  increased.  An  active  and  discontented 
element  in  the  press-room,  led  by  Milliken,  had  com 
pelled  an  expensive  readjustment  of  the  wage  scale,  and 
the  combative  Socialist  was  already  lining  up  his  men  for 
another  raid.  Thus  Jeremy  had  found  it  expedient  to  re 
new  from  time  to  time  the  twenty-thousand-dollar  note 


COMMON  CAUSE  291 

at  the  Drovers'  Bank.  No  difficulties  had  been  made  over 
the  renewals.  Nor  was  the  owner  of  the  paper  much  con 
cerned  with  the  matter.  From  the  time  that  his  property 
had  turned  Prosperity  Corner  into  Easy  Street,  to  adopt 
Andrew  Galpin's  term,  Jeremy  had  been  content  to  leave 
the  business  and  financial  details  to  the  general  manager 
and  Verrall,  reserving  himself  for  editorial  problems. 
Even  Verrall,  of  the  twittering  nervous  system,  was  now 
ready  to  admit  that  the  paper  was  winning  and  would 
soon  be  an  established  property,  if  Jeremy  would  tact 
fully  refrain  from  further  and  gratuitous  depredations 
against  Teutonic  sensibilities.  Verrall  did  not  appreciate, 
to  the  full,  the  unforgiving  tenacity  of  Deutschtum. 

Fortunately  for  Jeremy  Robson,  the  campaign  for  the 
State  offices  of  Centralia,  in  the  fall  of  1915,  took  prece 
dence  over  everything  else  in  the  public  mind.  The  re 
election  of  Governor  Embree  on  the  anti-corporation  is 
sue  was  all  but  conceded.  But  it  was  not  the  issue  that 
insured  him  victory.  The  solid  German  vote  did  that. 
Orders  had  gone  forth  to  the  German-language  press  that 
Governor  Embree,  even  where  special  conditions  made  it 
impracticable  to  support  him,  must  be  recognized  as  an 
authority  on  international  complications  and  a  statesman 
of  national  caliber.  For  Embree's  reelection  meant  that 
he  would  be  next  in  line  for  the  Senate  vacancy,  three 
years  hence,  and  Deutschtum  needed  sympathetic  souls, 
such  as  it  deemed  Martin  Embree  to  be,  in  the  high 
places  of  government.  The  real  fight  of  the  old-line  crowd 
was  for  control  of  the  State  Legislature.  For  this  they 
were  quite  ready  to  sacrifice  their  gubernatorial  candi 
date,  one  Tellersen,  a  stock  war-horse  of  the  political 
stables.  A  safe  representation  in  either  legislative  house 


292  COMMON  CAUSE 

would  mean  that  Embree's  pet  corporation  measure, 
aimed  specially  at  the  P.-U.  and  its  branches,  but  affect 
ing  all  railroads  in  the  State,  was  scotched.  It  might  even 
mean  that  the  Blanket  Franchise  Bill  could  be  put 
through.  As  a  further  safeguard  to  corporate  interests, 
the  P.-U.  intended  to  put  forward,  later,  its  own  legal  ad 
viser  for  a  place  on  the  Court  of  Appeals  bench. 

The  campaign  drew  the  Governor  and  Jeremy  Robson 
closer  together  than  they  had  been  since  the  Lusitania 
editorial.  Where  no  vital  matter  of  principle  was  in 
volved,  The  Guardian  was  quite  willing  to  keep  off  Ger 
man  toes.  On  his  side,  the  campaigning  Governor  con 
sented  to  emphasize  Americanism  while  still  maintaining 
his  attitude  of  sympathy  for  the  sentiments  of  the  Ger 
man-Americans.  Embree  won  by  a  large  majority,  the 
German  districts  giving  him  a  preponderance  of  votes 
which  gravely  troubled  Jeremy  when  the  figures  were 
analyzed.  But  on  the  legislative  side  it  was  conceded 
that  only  the  brilliant  campaign  of  The  Guardian  in 
Fenchester  and  The  Journal  in  Bellair  had  averted  a 
signal  defeat.  Widespread  "trading"  of  the  German- 
American  vote  had  favored  the  P.-U.  plans.  So  close 
was  the  result  that,  when  the  figures  were  all  in,  no  man 
could  say  which  side  had  won.  Taking  both  houses 
together  there  were  at  least  ten  indeterminate  votes. 
Plainly  the  battle  for  control  of  the  State  would  be 
fought  out  in  the  spring  session  between  the  corpora 
tion  interests,  locally  represented  by  Montrose  Clark  and 
Judge  Selden  Dana,  and  the  radicals  led  by  Governor 
Embree.  Through  that  winter  Jeremy,  scenting  the  lesser 
battle  from  afar,  cried  "  Ha-ha !"  editorially  with  fre 
quency  and  fervor,  relegating  the  greater  cause  to  the 


COMMON  CAUSE  293 

background  for  the  time.  Herein  he  was  honest  enough, 
as  well  as  politic.  He  believed  that  the  action  and  course 
of  the  United  States  was  in  abeyance  until  the  people 
should  have  opportunity  of  making  themselves  heard  in 
the  presidential  decision  of  the  coming  year.  Hence  he 
was  content  to  wait,  always  providing  that  no  major  issue 
imperatively  called  for  an  expression  of  policy.  For  a 
time,  too,  Germany  seemed  more  inclined  to  respect  the 
dictates  of  humanity.  Locally,  Jeremy  found  the  atmos 
phere  clearing.  The  Governor's  triumphant  reelection 
had  pleased  and  appeased  the  Germans,  and  they  were 
inclined  to  accord  a  certain  measure  of  credit  to  The 
Guardian.  Jeremy  was  sensible  of  an  improved  temper  in 
many  members  of  the  Deutscher  Club  as  he  met  them 
casually.  But  Blasius  was  still  out  of  the  paper;  Stock- 
muller  as  well.  And  Emil  Bausch,  when  he  encountered 
Jeremy  on  the  street,  became  absorbed  in  the  contempla 
tion  of  the  Beautiful  as  exemplified  in  cloud-shapes. 

Virtuously  unconscious  of  any  backsliding  or  suspicion 
thereof,  Jeremy  was  surprised  at  being  made  the  target  of 
a  direct  attack  by  Miss  Letitia  Pritchard,  whom  he  was 
passing  with  a  bow  on  Bank  Street  one  March  day  of 
1916,  when  she  held  him  up  with  a  lowered  umbrella. 

"  Mr.  Robson,  have  you  gone  over?"  she  inquired,  her 
eyes  snapping  fire  into  the  query. 

Naturally,  Jeremy  asked  what  she  meant. 

"  I  Ve  been  taking  The  Guardian  again  ever  since  the 
Lusitania  editorial,  because  I  just  had  to  have  an  Ameri 
can  newspaper  in  the  house.  Are  you  still  that?" 

"Do  you  doubt  it?" 

"Could  anybody  help  but  doubt  it!"  challenged  the 
vigorous  lady.  "Politics,  politics,  politics!  Nothing  but 


294  COMMON  CAUSE 

stupid  politics !  Don't  you  know  the  greatest  war  in  his 
tory  is  coming  closer  to  us  every  day?" 

"I  hope  not  closer  to  us." 

"A  fool's  hope!  Do  you  know  your  Bible,  Mr.  Rob- 
son?" 

"Not  as  well  as  I  ought." 

"  Better  read  it  more.  Those  writers  were  n't  afraid  to 
speak  their  minds  in  a  good  cause." 

At  the  ugly  adjective  Jeremy  flushed. 

"But  that's  beside  the  matter,"  she  pursued,  twinkling 
at  him  suddenly.  "I  came  across  a  quotation  that  the 
Deutscher  Club  ought  to  send  you,  suitably  illuminated. 
Isaiah,  14,  8;  the  last  sentence.  Look  it  up." 

"I  will,"  promised  the  editor. 

"And  you  can  come  and  tell  me  how  well  it  fits,"  she 
threw  back  at  him  over  her  departing  shoulder. 

Important  telegrams  claimed  Jeremy's  attention  on  his 
return.  Having  disposed  of  them,  his  mind  reverted  to 
Miss  Pritchard's  suggestion  for  a  Deutscher  Club  quota 
tion  for  him. 

'"Buddy,"  he  said  to  the  industrious  Mr.  Higman, 
"look  up  the  fourteenth  chapter  of  Isaiah,  copy  the  last 
sentence  of  the  eighth  verse  and  bring  it  to  me." 

Protesting  under  his  breath  that  this  was  no  time  for 
Sunday-School  exercises,  Buddy  interrupted  the  composi 
tion  of  a  Social  Jotting,  and  set  about  the  errand.  When 
he  returned  there  was  a  pleased  expression  upon  his  face. 
He  presented  his  chief  with  a  slip  of  paper  thus  inscribed : 

"Since  thou  art  laid  down,  no  feller  is  come  up  against 
us." 

"What's  this,  Buddy?"  demanded  the  chief  sternly. 
"I  said  the  Bible." 


COMMON  CAUSE  295 

"That's  where  I  got  it,"  returned  the  appreciative 
Buddy.  "Some  of  those  old  guys  could  sure  sling  the  up- 
to-date  stuff." 

"Bring  me  the  Old  Testament."  Jeremy  looked  up  the 
text  and,  to  his  surprise,  verified  the  exact  words.  But 
when  he  saw  the  context  he  laughed.  And  that  evening 
he  made  one  of  his  rare  calls. 

"Isaiah  is  no  prophet  so  far  as  The  Guardian  is  con 
cerned,"  he  declared  to  Miss  Pritchard.  "And  the  style  of 
that  sting  rings  familiar.  Where  did  you  get  it?" 

"It  was  written  on  the  margin  of  an  old  Guardian." 

Jeremy  raised  questioning  eyes  to  her  face.  Miss 
Pritchard  nodded. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "She  was  back  in  Berne  when  that 
was  sent." 

"All  right?"  Jeremy  was  conscious  that  his  voice  was 
less  insouciant  than  he  could  have  wished. 

"Quite.  She  will  go  back  to  Germany  after  the  war,  I 
suppose." 

"Will  you  give  her  a  message  for  me?" 

"If  you  wish." 

The  dry,  slightly  hesitant  tone  meant,  "  If  you  will  be 
so  foolish." 

"Tell  her  for  The  Guardian,"  said  Jem,  "that  this 
feller  has  n't  laid  down.  Tell  her  that  he  won't  lay  down  " 
—  he  paused,  and  then  completed  the  paraphrase  — 
"though  Hell  from  beneath  is  moved  for  him  to  meet 
him  at  his  coming." 

"  Put  that  on  your  editorial  page,"  said  Miss  Pritchard, 
with  a  thrill  in  her  voice.  "  I  'd  like  Marcia  to  see  it  there." 

"Perhaps  I  will  when  the  day  comes,"  he  answered  and 
took  his  leave. 


296  COMMON  CAUSE 

It  was  the  first  message  that  he  had  sent  to  Marcia 
Ames  since  they  had  parted  at  the  door  of  the  Pritchard 
mansion  nearly  four  years  before.  Every  sense  of  her, 
every  thought  of  her,  was  as  vivid,  unblurred,  untainted 
by  time  as  if  she  had  gone  from  him  yesterday:  "the  love 
liness  that  wanes  not,  the  Love  that  ne'er  can  wane." 
Now,  even  by  so  tenuous  a  thread  as  his  impersonal  mes 
sage  for  The  Guardian,  he  held  to  her  again.  And  in  his 
heart  sang  something  lesser  but  sweeter  than  hope. 


CHAPTER  VI 

WORDS  occasionally  take  epidemic  form.  Such  was 
the  course  of  the  word  " hyphen"  through  the 
United  States  in  the  year  1916,  with  its  alternate  phases, 
"hyphenate"  and  " hyphenated."  Centralia,  however, 
established  a  quarantine  against  the  terms.  They  were 
checked  at  the  borders  of  the  State.  Where  they  did  creep 
in  and  break  out  into  print,  it  was  but  a  sporadic  appear 
ance,  the  references  being  both  cautious  and  resentful 
that  such  a  characterization  should  be  allowed  to  the  li 
cense  of  an  unbridled  Eastern  press.  None  was  willing  to 
admit  that  the  hyphen  could  be  an  issue  in  the  future. 

It  fell  to  The  Guardian  to  make  the  first  use  of  "  hy 
phenate"  as  a  term  carrying  a  suggestion  of  reproach. 
Quite  casually,  indeed  carelessly,  it  was  written  in  a  sen 
tence  of  no  special  import  in  one  of  Jeremy's  editorials. 
Where  bolder  and  more  direct  offense  might  have  passed 
with  no  more  than  the  usual  retaliation,  this  by- word  was 
seized  upon  by  the  enemy.  It  came  in  the  more  pat  in 
that,  since  Jeremy's  talk  with  Miss  Pritchard,  The  Guard 
ian  had  assumed  a  more  positive  tone  upon  war  issues. 
Now  the  hyphenated  press  again  fell  upon  him  tooth  and 
nail.  The  Marlittstown  Herold  und  Zeitung  sounded 
the  keynote  in  declaring  that  The  Guardian,  not  content 
with  playing  England's  game  and  misrepresenting  Ger 
many's  part  in  the  war,  had  now  descended  to  calling 
the  loyal  German-Americans  foul  names.  "Hyphenate" 
did  n't  seem  to  Jeremy  a  very  villainously  foul  name.  He 
was  much  inclined  to  dismiss  the  whole  thing  from  mind 


298  COMMON  CAUSE 

as  a  petty  excuse  for  renewed  hostilities,  had  not  the  flood 
of  letters  in  his  mail  apprised  him  that  the  chance  word 
had  been  salt  upon  the  raw  surf  aces  of  the  Teutonic  skin. 
Selecting  a  typical  letter,  he  replied  to  it  in  a  moderate 
and  good-tempered  editorial,  pointing  out  that  in  the  hy 
phen  itself  was  no  harm ;  but  that  essentially  the  Nation 
had  a  right  to  expect  every  German-American,  Irish- 
American,  Swedish- American,  or  other  adoptive  citizen, 
to  consider  the  interests  of  this  country  as  paramount  in 
any  crisis.  Far  from  soothing  the  exacerbated  press,  this 
seemed  rather  to  inflame  them.  Their  principles  were  not 
clear  (other  than  that  they  were  not  to  be  "dictated  to" 
by  Jeremy  or  any  one  else),  but  their  temper  was.  That 
one  misstep  had  landed  The  Guardian  in  a  hornet's 
nest. 

Just  about  the  time  when  the  buzzing  and  whirring 
were  the  loudest,  Judge  Selden  Dana  called  to  see  Jeremy, 
and  requested  the  favor  of  half  an  hour's  uninterrupted 
conference  upon  a  subject  of  importance.  When  the  long- 
jawed,  sleepy-eyed,  crafty-spoken  lawyer  settled  down  to 
his  topic,  it  manifested  itself  as  the  imminent  fight  in  the 
Legislature  over  the  public  utilities  bills.  On  behalf  of 
certain  clients,  Judge  Dana  would  be  pleased  to  know 
what  attitude  The  Guardian  might  be  expected  to  assume. 
" Don't  you  read  The  Guardian,  Judge?"  inquired  its 
editor. 

"  Always.   I  may  add,  carefully." 
"Then  do  you  have  to  ask  where  we  stand?  " 
"Circumstances  change,  Mr.  Robson.  Conditions  also. 
Sometimes  opinions." 

"Changed   circumstances  or  conditions  might  alter 
The  Guardian's  opinions.  Is  that  the  idea? " 


COMMON  CAUSE  299 

"  I  suppose  that  The  Guardian's  circumstances  are 
changed,"  murmured  the  lawyer. 

Jeremy's  easy  smile  vanished.  "The  Guardian  is  able 
to  take  care  of  itself." 

"Up  to  a  point.  That  I  will  concede.  But,  all  things 
considered,  would  not  the  paper  do  well  to  make  some 
friends  now,  instead  of  enemies?" 

"That  depends  on  the  price  to  be  paid." 

"Small.  Ridiculously  small."  Judge  Dana  spread  out 
a  pair  of  candid  hands.  "Mr.  Robson,  I'm  not  going  to 
ask  that  The  Guardian  oppose  the  Corporation  Control 
Bill  when  it  comes  up." 

"Indeed!" 

"Nor  that  you'll  support  the  Blanket  Franchise  Bill." 

"  I  appreciate  your  forbearance." 

"But  The  Guardian  has  professed  a  profound  regard 
for  neutrality." 

"As  to  the  war  only." 

"Neutrality,"  repeated  the  lawyer,  "as  to  the  war. 
Whether  you  have  practiced  what  you  preach  is  another 
matter.  Some  of  our  most  influential  citizens  and  busi 
ness  men  —  and  business  men  —  appear  to  think  not.  I 
don't  know,"  he  continued  with  intent,  "whether  The 
Guardian's  note  for  a  considerable  amount  —  say,  well, 
twenty  thousand  dollars  —  would  be  considered  safe  to 
day  by  the  best  of  our  local  banks.  I  say,  I  don't  know." 

"There's  very  little  you  don't  know,  isn't  there, 
Judge?"  retorted  the  editor  evenly. 

"  I  try  to  keep  informed;  I  try  to  keep  informed."  The 
long  jaw  relaxed  a  trifle.  "Now,  Mr.  Robson,  a  reasonable 
neutrality  as  to  these  pending  measures  would  be  greatly 
appreciated  by  us." 


300  COMMON  CAUSE 

"  Appreciation  is  a  vague  sort  of  thing." 

" Don't  think  you're  going  to  trap  me,  young  man," 
warned  the  visitor  keenly.  "I  'm  not  here  to  make 
offers.  Every  man  may  have  his  price,  but  I  don't 
happen  to  be  fool  enough  to  think  that  I  know  yours  or 
could  pay  it  if  I  did.  I  want  to  appeal  to  your  sense  of 
fairness." 

Jeremy  laughed,  not  unpleasantly.  "Don't  scare  me, 
Judge." 

"No.  This  is  plain  talk.  The  P.-U.  intends  to  open  up 
soon  its  extensive  educational  campaign  of  advertising, 
to  instruct  the  public  on  these  new  issues." 

"Through  the  newspapers?" 

"Through  the  newspapers.  Would  The  Guardian  re 
fuse  that  advertising?" 

"  I  don't  see  any  reason  why  it  should." 

"Very  good.  Would  it  accept  the  advertising  and  take 
our  money  in  payment  for  value  received,  and  then  turn 
about  and  destroy  all  the  value  to  us  by  attacking  our 
arguments  editorially?" 

"Very  ingenious,"  smiled  Jeremy.  "But  we've  been 
over  that  before,  have  n't  we?" 

"Not  ingenious.  Simple  fairness.   Is  n't  it?" 

"  Maybe  it  is."  , 

"Then—  " 

"Then  it's  quite  plain  that  we  can't  take  your  a'ds.  In 
other  words,  Judge  Dana,  you  can't  buy  our  editorial 
opinions." 

"See,  now,  how  you  divert  my  meaning,"  reproached 
'he  lawyer.  "I've  distinctly  said  that  all  we  expected  in 
The  Guardian  is  neutrality." 

"You  can't  buy  our  silence,  either." 


COMMON  CAUSE  301 

" What '11  you  take  for  The  Guardian?"  asked  the  law 
yer  abruptly. 

"The  Guardian's  not  for  sale." 

"  It  will  be  before  the  year's  end." 

"As  a  prophet  you  don't  qualify,  Judge." 

"As  a  man  who  knows  what  is  going  on,  I  do.  Figure 
out  what  the  loss  of  the  P.-U.  advertising  will  cost  you ; 
the  present  advertising  and  the  coming  campaign.  Figure 
on  top  of  that  the  other  railroad  advertising  affected  by 
this  strike  bill  of  Embree's.  Add  what  you  're  losing  every 
day  by  your  war-policy.  Then  figure  out  where  you're 
going  to  get  your  next  loan.  After  that,  come  and  see  me. 
Delighted  to  have  you  call  at  any  time.  Good-bye." 

"Now,  I  wonder  how  much  of  that  is  bluff,"  Jeremy 
communed  with  himself,  after  his  caller  had  left. 

He  had  not  long  to  wonder.  The  P.-U.  contract  was 
cancelled  on  the  following  day:  a  sure  sixteen  hundred 
dollars  and  a  potential  twenty-five  hundred  dollars  a 
year.  On  top  of  that  every  railroad  company  advertising 
in  The  Guardian  gave  notice  of  withdrawal. 

At  least  four  thousand  dollars  more,  gone.  True, 
Jeremy  might  have  brought  suit,  but  the  contracts  were 
so  loosely  drawn  that  the  issue  would  have  been  doubtful. 
As  if  by  a  preconcerted  signal,  various  concerns  in  Bellair 
and  the  other  large  cities,  which  had  been  consistent  pa 
trons  of  The  Guardian  for  years,  dropped  out.  One  churn 
manufacturing  company  was  quite  frank  as  to  the  reason. 
So  much  criticism  had  poured  in  from  the  German  farm 
ers,  against  The  Guardian  and  any  one  supporting  it,  that 
the  concern  deemed  it  wise  to  remove  the  cause  of  offense. 
Jeremy  pondered  upon  the  probability  that  the  P.-U., 
represented  for  political  reasons  in  the  Deutscher  Club 


302  COMMON  CAUSE 

by  Judge  Dana,  was  working  with  the  hyphenate  element 
to  down  the  paper.  He  foresaw  that  he  would  need  all  his 
resources,  editorial  and  financial,  to  weather  the  storm. 
No  hope,  for  the  present,  of  paying  off  that  twenty-thou 
sand-dollar  note  at  the  Drovers'  Bank.  Upon  the  heels  of 
the  thought,  he  recalled  Dana's  innuendo. 

He  went  at  once  to  the  bank  and  asked  for  the  presi 
dent,  Mr.  Warrington.  Mr.  Warrington  was  gently  re 
gretful,  but  could  not  see  his  way  to  renew  the  note.  No, 
not  even  for  half  the  amount.  Money  was  in  great  de 
mand.  Newspaper  security  was  proverbially  unstable. 
Finally:  "One  of  our  directors  who  is  in  a  position  to  be 
informed  strongly  advises  against  continuing  the  loan." 
Knowing  beforehand  what  name  he  should  find,  Jeremy 
looked  up  a  list  of  the  directors.  There  it  was,  "  Montrose 
Clark,  President  Fenchester  Public  Utilities  Corporation." 

Pride,  an  excellent  quality  in  an  editor,  is  no  asset  to 
a  borrower.  Swallowing  his,  Jeremy  made  a  pilgrimage 
of  mortification  to  the  offices  of  the  P.-U.  Corporation, 
where  he  presented  to  Carson,  the  hand-perfected  secre 
tary,  his  application  to  see  Mr.  Montrose  Clark.  Carson, 
discreetly  and  condescendingly  smiling  from  above  the 
carnation  in  his  curvy  black  coat,  said  that  he  would  see 
if  it  could  be  arranged.  Thereafter  Jeremy  had  leisure  to 
do  more  swallowing,  for  he  was  kept  waiting  a  humili 
ating  and  purposeful  hour.  Admitted,  at  length,  to  the 
presence,  he  went  at  once  to  the  point. 

"Mr.  Clark,  it  is  going  to  be  very  inconvenient  not  to 
have  The  Guardian  note  renewed." 

The  president  of  the  P.-U.  was  no  foe  to  time-saving 
directness.  "It  would  be  very  inconvenient  for  us  to  have 
The  Guardian  misrepresenting  the  new  franchise  plan." 


COMMON  CAUSE  303 

"That's  not  a  franchise.  It's  a  Hudson's  Bay  Com 
pany  charter.  It  would  give  you  the  right  to  do  anything 
from  conducting  a  revival  to  raising  beans  on  the  right  of 
way.  It  is  n't  even  constitutional." 

"Lesser  legal  authorities  than  yourself  venture  to  dis 
sent,"  returned  the  other,  sardonically.  "Such  as  Judge 
Dana." 

"He's  paid  to." 

"As  you  are  paid  for  your  partisanship,  in  circulation 
among  sensation-seekers,  and  in  the  favors  of  that  blath 
erskite,  Embree." 

"The  Guardian  stands  by  the  Governor  in  this  fight." 

"Go  to  him  for  your  loan,  then." 

"Am  I  to  understand  that  unless  I  play  the  corpora 
tion  game  here,  the  banks  are  closed  to  me?" 

"Not  from  anything  I  have  said." 

"Said:  no.  It's  pretty  plain  what  you  mean.  Well,  the 
plant  is  good  security.  I  can  get  money  from  the  Chicago 
banks." 

"Probably  not,"  was  the  quiet  retort. 

It  fell  upon  Jeremy's  consciousness,  with  chill  forebod 
ing,  that  this  might  be  true.  Little  though  he  knew  of 
banking,  he  guessed  that  any  large,  out-of-town  banks 
would  take  counsel  of  the  local  institutions  before  making 
a  loan.  What  information  would  thus  be  elicited  would 
hardly  be  favorable.  He  rose. 

"All  right,  Mr.  Clark.  If  you  're  going  to  fight  that  way, 
it  can't  be  helped.  The  Guardian  is  n't  going  to  back 
down.  We'll  fight  you  on  your  own  terms,  to  a  finish." 
The  red  face  of  the  local  great  man  grew  redder.  "With 
this  difference,  that  we'll  fight  fair."  The  face  turned 
purple.  "I  bid  you  good-day,  sir." 


304  COMMON  CAUSE 

"What  do  you  mean  by  talking  to  me  about  fairness?" 
burst  out  the  other.  "You  don't  know  what  fairness  is." 

"Call  it  patriotism,  then.  If  I  were  in  your  position, 
Mr.  Clark,  I  don't  think  I  'd  care  to  make  a  deal  with  the 
Deutscher  Club  committee,  to  try  and  ruin  a  newspaper 
for  daring  to  be  American  and  not  hyphen-American." 

Montrose  Clark  bolted  up  out  of  his  chair.  "  It 's  a  lie," 
he  roared. 

"  It 's  the  truth.  Ask  Judge  Dana.  You  're  going  to  put 
him  up  for  the  Court  of  Appeals,  I  hear.  Let  me  suggest 
that  you  read  his  record  first.  Or,  you  can  read  it  later 
in  The  Guardian." 

"Don't  you  threaten  your  betters,  sir."  Jeremy 
laughed.  "Let  me  tell  you  before  you  go,"  pursued  the 
exacerbated  banker,  "that  I  have  n't  forgotten  your  im 
pertinence  in  pretending  to  expect  me  to  trot  around  to 
your  wretched  little  newspaper  office." 

Instead  of  annoying,  this  final  flash  of  pettiness  rather 
cheered  Jeremy.  After  all,  he  reflected,  on  his  way  back, 
a  man  so  small-souled  could  not  be  a  very  formidable 
opponent.  Montrose  Clark,  he  surmised,  was  powerful 
chiefly  because  nobody  had  ever  boldly  challenged  his 
power.  Nevertheless,  Jeremy  did  not  under-reckon  the 
seriousness  of  his  situation.  Money  the  paper  must  have, 
and  at  once.  By  gutting  his  reserve  and  selling  some  high- 
grade  stocks  in  an  unfavorable  market,  he  could  pay  off 
the  note.  But,  in  that  case,  The  Guardian  would  have 
to  continue  on  a  shoe-string,  and  with  obvious  troubles 
looming  ahead.  He  laid  the  problem  in  conference  before 
Andrew  Galpin  and  Max  Verrall.  Verrall,  who  for  weeks 
had  been  prowling  about  the  office  with  his  pale  and  bony 
fingers  plunged  in  his  brickish  hair,  ready  at  any  moment, 


COMMON  CAUSE  305 

one  might  infer,  to  pluck  out  some  desperate  handfuls, 
promptly  made  the  same  suggestion  that  Montrose  Clark 
had  proffered,  though  in  a  different  tone. 

"Go  to  the  Governor." 

"How  would  he  have  any  spare  money?"  demanded 
Galpin. 

"  He  can  get  it  easy  enough.  His  name  on  a  note  would 
go  with  any  bank  in  the  Northern  Tier." 

"No.  That  won't  do,"  objected  Jeremy.  "We're  too 
close  politically.  That  would  compromise  The  Guardian 
if  it  were  ever  known." 

"Let  him  fix  it  up  for  you,  then,  without  his  endorse 
ment,"  insisted  the  other.  "  I  '11  go  up  and  see  him  now." 

Arrangements  were  quickly  completed.  Nothing  eas 
ier,  the  Governor  had  said,  smiling.  He  had  sent  Verrall 
up  to  Spencerville  with  letters.  All  was  concluded  that 
evening.  The  Spencerville  Agricultural  Savings  Bank 
would  be  glad  to  loan  to  Mr.  Robson,  on  the  security  of 
The  Guardian  plant,  any  sum  up  to  twenty-five  thousand 
dollars.  Verrall  brought  back  the  glad  news  in  the  morn 
ing. 

"Too  easy,"  grumbled  Galpin.  "Don't  close  yet,"  he 
advised  his  chief  privately.  "  I  'm  taking  a  day  off." 

The  general  manager  made  a  flying  trip  to  Spencer 
ville.  On  his  return,  he  held  a  long  conference  with 
Jeremy,  the  upshot  of  which  was  that  the  Governor  was 
warmly  thanked  for  his  kind  offices,  but  informed  that 
the  loan  would  not  be  needed  as  another  arrangement 
had  been  made.  The  other  arrangement  was  a  second- 
mortgage  loan  on  the  building  for  fifteen  thousand  dol 
lars.  This,  they  hoped,  would  pull  them  through. 

Andrew  Galpin  had  won  his  point  by  a  silent  exhibit  of 


306  COMMON  CAUSE 

a  snap-shot  taken  in  Spencerville.  It  showed  the  obliging 
bank,  with  its  front  window  bearing  this  inscription : 

"  Landwirtschaftliche  Spar-Bank." 

The  lettering  was  German  text. 


CHAPTER  VII 

MIGHTY  was  the  clash  of  political  lances,  that 
spring  of  1916,  in  Fenchester.  Senate  and  Assem 
bly  alike  rang  with  noble  phrases  and  high  sentiments. 
The  mortal  agony  of  a  world  across  the  seas,  locked  in  a 
conflict  which  should  determine  the  future  of  civilization, 
became  a  quite  unimportant  matter  to  those  embattled 
souls  on  the  hill.  Let  outer  and  lesser  history  take  its 
course ;  it  was  theirs  to  decide  whether  the  State  of  Cen- 
tralia  should  or  should  not  thenceforth  emancipate  itself 
from  the  rule  of  its  former  and  uncrowned  dictators. 
From  the  front  pages  of  the  local  press,  a  committee  vote 
was  likely  to  evict  an  Italian  battle,  or  an  interview  with 
Montrose  Clark  or  'Governor  Embree  take  precedence 
over  a  peace-hint  from  Baron  Burian.  All  of  which 
meant,  if  you  read  The  Record,  that  the  radical  and  so 
cialistic  element  were  undertaking  to  slay  the  fairy-babe, 
Blanket  Franchise,  and  substitute  the  horrid  changeling, 
Corporation  Control;  whereas,  if  you  pinned  your  faith  to 
The  Guardian,  it  indicated  the  final  struggle  of  an  op 
pressed  people  to  writhe  out  from  beneath  the  heel  of  a 
conscienceless  tyranny  of  dollars.  Amidst  all  this  sound 
and  fury  Judge  Selden  Dana's  candidacy,  signifying  much 
but  saying  little,  was  pressed.  Only  one  reference  had  the 
Judge  made  to  Jeremy's  warning  about  his  past  record. 

"  Remember  that  libel  is  criminal  as  well  as  civil,  my 
young  friend." 

To  which  Jeremy  replied  cheerfully:  "Let  us  know 


308  COMMON  CAUSE 

when  your  formal  announcement  is  made,  Judge.  We'll 
give  you  a  good  show." 

"Agreed,"  said  the  lawyer.  "And  I'll  give  you  some 
advertising,  too.  I  've  got  to  convert  some  of  your  deluded 
followers." 

Already  the  advertising  campaign  of  the  P.-U.  was  in 
full  swing.  Part  of  it  had  been  offered  to  The  Guardian, 
in  spite  of  Judge  Dana's  earlier  threat.  That  had  been 
partly  bluff.  The  astute  politician  knew  that  an  element, 
not  otherwise  attainable,  could  be  reached  with  argument 
through  the  radical  paper.  Only  with  great  difficulty  had 
he  persuaded  Montrose  Clark  to  this  view.  Said  the  pub 
lic  utilitarian,  reluctantly  according  his  assent: 

"I  haven't  forgotten  that  that  cub  accused  us  of 
playing  the  Germans  against  his  paper.  I  gave  him  the 
lie." 

Judge  Dana,  who  knew  far  more  about  the  Deutscher 
Club's  internal  operations  than  he  cared  to  have  his  prin 
cipal  realize,  passed  this  observation  with  a  non-com 
mittal  smile. 

"I'm  going  to  advertise  my  own  candidacy  there,"  he 
pursued.  "To  get  converts  you've  got  to  go  after  the 
other  side." 

After  having  prevailed  upon  the  public  utilitarian  to 
adopt  his  view,  Judge  Dana  was  chagrined  at  having  the 
proffered  advertisements  rejected  by  the  owner  of  The 
Guardian. 

"But  why?"  he  demanded,  his  sleepy  eyes  lifted  to 
Jeremy's  with  a  candid  and  injured  expression. 

"You  want  too  much.  I  remember  your  learned  and 
able  argument  as  to  editorial  forbearance  toward  adver 
tisers,  Brother  Dana." 


COMMON  CAUSE  309 

The  lawyer  shifted  his  ground.  "Is  it  fair  to  deny  the 
other  side  a  hearing?" 

"That 's  where  you 've  got  me,"  admitted  Jeremy.  " It 
is  n't.  But  if  I  take  your  ads  and  then  go  after  you  edi 
torially,  you  '11  claim  that  we  are  double-crossing  you." 

In  fact  this  is  precisely  what  the  ingenious  Dana  had 
purposed  doing,  through  the  lips  of  his  campaign  speak 
ers.  But  he  came  back  promptly  with  "The  ads  are  of 
fered  without  stipulations." 

Jeremy  considered.  Setting  aside  the  money  considera 
tion,  the  mere  appearance  of  the  P.-U.  advertising  in  The 
Guardian  would  notably  add  to  the  paper's  prestige,  as 
an  admission  that  its  advertising  pull  was  essential  even 
to  a  hostile  campaign.  He  very  much  wanted  that  ad 
vertising.  Picking  up  a  pencil  he  scribbled  a  sentence, 
conned  it,  amended,  elided,  copied  it  fair  and  full  and 
handed  it  across  to  the  other. 

"Provided  that  every  ad  carries  this  footnote,"  he  said. 

Judge  Dana  read.  "You  young  hellion!"  he  mur 
mured,  and  grinned  aslant  and  ruefully.  He  repeated  the 
words  on  the  paper.  "This  paid  advertising  is  submitted 
and  accepted  without  reference  to  what  may  appear  upon 
the  subject  in  the  news  or  advertising  columns  of  The 
Guardian." 

"All  right,  is  n't  it?  "  asked  Jeremy,  in  the  tone  of  inno 
cence. 

"You  young  hellion!"  said  the  Judge  again,  almost 
affectionately,  this  time.  His  double-cross  accusation  was 
gone  glimmering.  "I'll  go  you,  anyway,"  he  decided. 
"Do  you  want  the  same  footnote  on  my  campaign  stuff?" 

"No.  That '11  speak  for  itself." 

"Let  it  speak  fair.    That's  all  I  ask.    And  see  here, 


310  COMMON  CAUSE 

young  man.  Twenty  years  ago  is  n't  a  fair  basis  to  judge 
a  man  on." 

"It  is,  if  the  man  has  n't  changed,"  Jeremy  shot  back. 

At  what  was  judged  to  be  the  psychological  moment, 
the  news  was  permitted  to  seep  into  the  papers  of  the 
State  that  the  eminent  jurist  Judge  Selden  Dana  was 
being  urged  to  become  a  candidate  for  the  vacancy  on  the 
Court  of  Appeals  bench.  The  method  was  sedate  almost 
to  demureness.  Immediately  there  blossomed  forth  fra 
grant  and  colorful  editorials,  from  all  corners  of  the  State 
to  form  a  wreath  for  the  blushing  and  debutante  candi 
dacy.  These  constituted  an  enthusiastic  and  determined 
public  demand.  Judge  Dana  urbanely  announced  that  he 
would  accede  to  it.  The  Guardian  carried  the  announce 
ment  as  news,  giving  it  due  prominence.  Thereafter,  for 
several  days,  Judge  Dana,  Montrose  Clark,  and  a  num 
ber  of  other  important  and  interested  persons,  secured 
early  editions  of  The  Guardian  each  day  with  more  inter 
est  than  they  would  have  cared  to  admit.  When  the  at 
tack  did  come,  it  was  in  such  peculiar  and  indeterminate 
form  that  there  was  a  general  sigh  of  relief  over  a  venture 
foredoomed  to  fall  flat. 

On  his  editorial  page,  Jeremy  had  "boxed"  a  double- 
column  at  the  top,  with  what  was  obviously  the  outline  of 
a  half-tone  photographic  rectangle.  But  the  interior  was 
a  blank.  Below  it  ran  the  legend : 

A  CANDIDATE 

(  Fill  in  the  Picture  to  Suit  Yourself) 

This  was  followed  by  one  of  the  most  biting  poems 
from  the  grimmest  volume  of  modern  American  litera 
ture,  with  the  attributive  line: 


COMMON  CAUSE  311 

"  From  Edgar  Lee  Masters'  'Spoon  River  Anthology.' 

I  was  attorney  for  the  Q. 

And  the  Indemnity  Company  which  insured 

The  owners  of  the  mine. 

I  pulled  the  wires  with  judge  and  jury 

And  the  upper  courts,  to  beat  the  claims 

Of  the  crippled,  the  widow  and  orphan, 

And  made  a  fortune  thereat. 

The  bar  association  sang  my  praises 

In  a  high-flown  resolution 

And  the  floral  tributes  were  many  — 

But  the  rats  devoured  my  heart 

And  a  snake  made  a  nest  in  my  skull ! 

Deeming  this  a  flash-in -the-pan,  the  Dana  partisans 
reckoned  without  the  terrible  power  of  allusiveness.  Ugly 
memories  rose  to  meet,  identify,  and  confirm  the  portrait. 
Day  after  day,  Jeremy  reprinted  it,  without  comment. 
The  press  in  other  places  took  it  up,  and  in  an  unbeliev 
ably  brief  time  it  had  spread  throughout  the  State,  a 
strangleweed  upon  the  growth  of  the  candidate's  tender 
young  chances.  Conferences  were  hastily  called.  Ways 
and  means  of  curbing  The  Guardian's  destructive  activi 
ties  were  projected,  canvassed,  and  dismissed.  Appar 
ently  there  was  no  way  either  of  " handling"  Jeremy 
Robson,  or  of  uprooting  a  poem  once  planted  and  spread 
ing  in  the  public  consciousness.  The  candidate  himself, 
depressed  but  philosophical,  pointed  the  way  out.  A 
substitute,  stodgy  but  honorable,  was  found,  and  the  re 
grettable  but  timely  return  of  an  ancient  liver  trouble 
compelled  Judge  Dana  to  withdraw  from  the  exigent  de 
mands  of  a  political  campaign  to  the  seclusion  of  certain 
reconstructive  hot  springs. 

What  effect  this  might  have  upon  the  legislative  fight, 
no  man  could  foretell.  Many  thought  that  the  Judge's 


312  COMMON  CAUSE 

candidacy  had,  in  itself,  impugned  the  P.-U.  before  the 
public.  Certainly  the  leaders  of  the  Blanket  Franchise 
movement  missed  his  shrewd  judgment,  for  he  would 
never  have  let  them  make  the  first  move  in  a  losing  fight. 
In  his  absence  Montrose  Clark  forced  the  issue.  Embree's 
forces  lined  up  against  him,  and  beat  the  Franchise  Bill 
in  the  Assembly  by  a  round  dozen  of  votes.  Encouraged 
by  this,  the  other  side  thrust  forward  Governor  Embree's 
Corporation  Control  Bill  as  revised  by  Professor  Rap- 
pelje.  Now  it  was  time  for  the  public  utilities  of  the  State 
to  rally  to  the  last  man,  for  this  was  a  battle  to  the  death. 
The  Guardian  did  yeoman  work  in  this  as  in  the  first  ac 
tion;  but  the  weight  of  resources  was  on  the  other  side. 
On  the  final  vote  the  public  utility  interests  won  by  a 
scant  but  triumphant  margin  of  three.  Thus  the  whole 
campaign  had  resulted  in  a  draw.  If  Centralia  had,  on 
the  one  hand,  repudiated  corporation  control,  on  the 
other  it  had  balked  at  the  radical  measure  put  forth  by 
the  Governor.  All  that  ground  must  be  fought  over 
again.  The  one  clear  triumph  had  fallen  to  The  Guard 
ian,  in  the  ousting  of  Judge  Dana. 

How  the  Judge  would  take  his  enforced  temporary 
exile  was  a  speculation  which  sprang  into  Jeremy  Rob- 
son's  mind  when,  the  smoke  of  the  corporation  battle 
having  cleared  away,  he  met  the  shrewd  jurist,  brown, 
hearty,  and  with  no  slightest  liverish  symptom,  in  the 
hotel  restaurant.  Would  he  ignore  Jeremy's  existence? 
The  younger  man  gave  him  credit  for  being  too  sound  a 
sport  for  that.  But  he  rather  expected  to  be  held  at  a 
distance.  Not  at  all.  Dana  came  up  and  shook  hands. 

"Glad  to  see  you  looking  so  well,  Judge,"  said  Jeremy, 
and  meant  it. 


COMMON  CAUSE  313 

"Liver  is  n't  much  if  you  take  it  in  time,"  returned  the 
other  gravely.  Then,  "  You  still  wield  quite  a  lively  pen, 
my  young  friend." 

"As  a  weapon  of  defense,  it's  useful." 

"Look  out  that  the  point  does  n't  turn  in  on  you." 

"Warning  or  threat,  Judge?" 

"Professional  advice.  Something  I  seldom  give  gra 
tis." 

"  I  '11  bear  it  in  mind.  No  ill-will,  Judge? " 

"Oh,  I  can  take  as  well  as  give,"  answered  Dana,  who 
prided  himself  on  never  admitting  and  never  forgetting 
an  injury.  "This  is  no  kid-glove  game.  But  I  would  n't 
have  thought  poetry  had  such  a  punch  in  politics.  I'll 
have  to  look  into  that  line  a  little  closer." 

As  an  example  of  what  the  Judge  could  give  in  return 
for  what  he  took,  there  presently  descended  upon  The 
Guardian  a  small  but  lively  swarm  of  libel  suits.  All  were 
traceable,  directly  or  inferentially,  to  the  office  of  Dana  & 
Dana,  a  firm  which  did  not  ordinarily  cater  to  this  class 
of  business.  Four  were  wholly  without  merit;  two  were 
of  the  kind  that  can  always  be  settled  for  a  hundred 
dollars  and  counsel  fees,  and  the  remaining  one  hinged 
upon  an  unfortunate  and  ambiguous  sentence  in  the 
tax-dodging  charge  against  that  aged  but  vigorous  lady, 
Madam  Taylor. 

"Hold-ups,  pure  and  simple,"  said  Andrew  Galpin  in 
dignantly.  "Dana  has  drummed  them  up." 

"Can  you  trace  them  to  him?  Safely  enough  so  that 
we  can  print  it?"  asked  his  chief. 

"Print  a  libel  suit  against  ourselves!"  said  the  gen 
eral  manager,  scandalized  at  this  threat  against  one  of  the 
most  rock-ribbed  principles  of  a  tradition-choked  calling. 


314  COMMON  CAUSE 

"All  seven  of  'em.  Tying  each  one  up  to  Dana.  No 
comment.  The  public  will  supply  that  for  themselves." 

The  result  more  than  justified  the  experiment.  Dana& 
Dana,  who  had  not  considered  the  possibility  of  this  sim 
ple  riposte,  hastily  withdrew  the  four  weakest  suits,  amidst 
no  little  public  amusement.  The  other  three,  however, 
were  pressed,  causing  a  continual  wear-and-tear  of  worry 
and  expense,  which  was  their  object.  Every  charge  against 
The  Guardian's  exchequer  now  meant  less  fighting  power 
later  when  the  test  should  come. 

Politics  succeeded  politics  in  Centralia,  meantime. 
Hardly  was  the  legislative  campaign  over  when  the  presi 
dential  election  began  to  loom.  Herein  Jeremy  found 
fresh  source  of  difficulty  and  indecision.  By  training  and 
natural  affiliation  he  was  opposed  to  the  party  of  the 
President.  In  so  far  as  The  Guardian  was  committed  at 
all,  it  was  Republican  in  national  politics,  and  more  Re 
publican  than  anything  else  in  State.  Undoubtedly  the 
popular  thing  to  do  would  be  to  enter  upon  a  virulent  at 
tack  against  all  the  presidential  policies.  Embree  urged 
this.  It  would  go  far  to  reconstitute  the  paper  with  the 
German-Americans  who  had  already  instituted  the  na 
tion-wide  campaign  of  the  hyphen  in  favor  of  the  Presi 
dent's  opponent,  taken  by  them  on  trust,  as  nothing  was 
known  of  him  in  a  world-political  sense  other  than  that  he 
was  a  sturdy  and  fearless  type  of  American.  Possibly  it 
was  the  very  vehemence  of  the  hyphenates  that  impelled 
Jeremy  to  a  cool-headed  course.  Virulent  he  could  not 
be ;  there  was  no  venom  in  him.  His  first  formal  pro 
nouncement  upon  the  campaign  was  to  the  effect  that  the 
United  States  had  never  before  had  a  choice  between 
two  alternative  candidates  of  such  high  character  and  at- 


COMMON  CAUSE  315 

tainment;  and  this  he  heartily  believed.  The  Guardian 
would  support  Hughes.  But  it  served  notice  on  all  and 
sundry  that  it  would  be  no  party  to  rancorous,  unjust, 
and  un-American  attacks  upon  a  President  whose  path 
had  been  more  beset  with  difficulties  and  perils  than  any 
leader's  since  the  day  of  Lincoln.  In  a  State  so  violently 
preoccupied  with  political  prejudices  as  Centralia,  this 
course  was  regarded  as  weak.  It  lost  support  to  The 
Guardian. 

Throughout  the  ensuing  campaign,  Jeremy  never 
seemed  able  to  get  his  hands  free  from  politics  suffi 
ciently  to  take  up  and  develop  a  distinct  attitude  toward 
the  deepening,  threatening  problems  of  the  war.  Embree 
deemed  this  fortunate.  So  did  Galpin,  upon  whom  the 
financial  weight  of  the  burden  of  conduct  was  heavily 
pressing.  The  fewer  superfluous  enmities  The  Guardian 
now  stirred  up,  the  better,  to  his  way  of  thinking.  Verrall 
was  all  for  peace  at  any  political  price.  But  though  the 
World-War  was  relegated  to  a  place  of  secondary  impor 
tance,  in  the  main,  it  was  not  consciously  neglected  or  belit 
tled.  Slowly  there  had  grown  up  in  The  Guardian's  envi 
ronment  the  feeling  that,  after  all,  here  was  the  one  paper 
which  was  honestly  undertaking  to  present  the  news  as 
it  developed.  This  helped  to  hold  its  circulation,  even 
among  those  who  bitterly  resented  its  editorial  attitude 
on  the  submarine,  the  bombing  of  defenseless  cities,  and 
similar  war  enterprises.  So  the  paper  won  through  the 
summer  and  fall  of  1916,  losing  but  little  under  the  secret 
unremitting  pressure  of  Deutschtum.  When  the  Presi 
dent  was  reflected,  Jeremy  Robson  spoke  out  frankly 
and  clearly  the  mind  that  was  in  him,  calling  for  a  united 
nation  to  be  ready  for  what  events  might  come  upon  it. 


3i6  COMMON  CAUSE 

Back  at  the  base  of  Jeremy's  hard-thinking  brain  there 
lay  a  lurking  self -accusation.  Had  he  not  used  the  po 
litical  stress  as  a  convenient  alibi?  Had  The  Guardian 
truly  stood  on  guard  against  the  subtle  and  powerful 
inner  war  being  waged  across  the  hyphen?  What  of  the 
promise,  deadly  serious  despite  its  quaint  Isaian  twist, 
given  to  Marcia  Ames?  He  sensed  the  looming  conflict. 
He  shrank  from  the  terms  of  fulfillment  to  be  exacted 
from  him.  But  take  up  his  pledge  he  must,  when  the  hour 
came,  though  Hell  from  beneath  were  moved  for  him  to 
meet  him  at  his  coming. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

DUMB  A  had  gone.  Von  Bernstorff  was  preparing  for 
departure.   The  atmosphere  which  they  had  created 

under  the  cloak  of  diplomatic  privilege  was  malodorous 
with  the  taint  of  plottings,  corruption,  and  chicanery. 
Grain  elevators  were  developing  extraordinary  tenden 
cies  toward  spontaneous  combustion.  Munitions  plants 
were  dissolving  into  fiery  fragments,  in  numbers  beyond 
the  reckoning  of  insurance-risk  experts.  Strikes  were 
materializing  in  the  most  unexpected  places  and  for  the 
most  unexplained  reasons.  An  informal  morning  call 
upon  a  peaceful  and  businessless  "advertising  agency" 
office  in  lower  New  York  had  laid  bare  to  the  heads  of 
Government  the  extent  of  Germany's  official  treachery, 
and  inklings  of  it  were  beginning  to  leak  out  to  the  pub 
lic.  Strident  politicians  were  filling  the  atmosphere  with 
irresponsible  clamor.  The  American  representatives  of 
Deutschtum  were  frantically  explaining,  denying,  palli 
ating,  sulking,  or  plotting.  No  corner  of  the  horizon  but 
bristled  with  imminent  lightnings.  The  earth  underfoot 
trembled  with  the  rumble  of  coming  events.  So  the  olo 
year  of  1916  which  saw  civilization  fighting  with  its  ba 
to  the  wall,  the  great  bubble  of  Russian  might  and  Rus 
sian  nationalism  already  dissipating,  France  staggering 
though  still  resolute,  England  facing  terror  and  herself 
the  more  terrible  in  that  grim  confrontation,  the  lesser 
nations  opponent  to  Germany  crushed  to  a  mere  welter 
of  blood,  the  Hun  savagely  certain  of  his  triumph,  and  on 
this  side  of  the  ocean,  the  United  States  being  slowly, 


3i 8  COMMON  CAUSE 

steadily,  unwittingly,  powerfully  drawn  and  bound  by 
the  gossamer  threads  of  a  nation's  psychology  to  the 
great  purposes  before  it  —  so  1916  passed  into  1917. 

With  it  passed  United  States  Senator  Eugene  Harter, 
of  the  State  of  Centralia.  Time  was  when  Senator  Harter 
had  been  a  useful  figure  in  the  Senate,  rather  by  the  pos 
session  of  a  vote  than  for  any  other  and  more  forceful 
reason.  But  even  his  vote  had  been  lost  of  late,  for  the 
exigencies  of  war-complications  had  terrified  him  and  a 
nervous  and  overfed  stomach  had  opportunely  collapsed. 
The  Senator  fled  to  the  tropics  for  surcease  from  trou 
blous  national  questions  and  in  search  of  health,  and 
there  encountered  a  mosquito  in  search  of  dinner.  The 
mosquito  being  infected  with  one  of  the  regional  fevers, 
his  victim  passed,  six  weeks  later,  to  that  country  where 
politics  have  been  unknown  since  Lucifer's  insurgents 
met  their  historical  downfall.  Thus  was  left  as  heritage 
to  the  Senator's  already  sufficiently  bemuddled  State  a 
legacy  of  further  complications,  in  that  his  successor 
must  be  elected  in  the  early  fall.  Here  was  benign  Fate 
moving  to  meet  the  welcoming  smile  of  Martin  Embree, 
well  ahead  of  schedule.  As  soon  as  official  decency  per 
mitted,  he  announced  his  candidacy  for  the  senatorship. 
With  his  German  following  nothing,  he  believed,  could 
defeat  him.  The  path  of  glory  extended,  broad  and  un 
obstructed,  before  his  eager  feet  to  the  Capitol  at  Wash 
ington;  and  thence  —  who  could  tell?  His  campaign 
prospered  from  the  first. 

Imagination  could  picture  nothing  less  like  a  lion  in 
Martin  Embree's  path  of  progress  than  the  old  man  who, 
on  a  harsh  March  night  of  1917,  sat  in  a  scholar's  book- 
lined  study,  painfully  writing.  A  bust  of  Goethe  looked 


COMMON  CAUSE  319 

benignly  down  upon  him.  There  were  pictures  on  the 
walls  of  Schiller,  of  Lessing,  of  Beethoven,  of  Wagner, 
and  the  table  was  strewn  with  German  publications.  By 
every  bond  of  the  old  man's  lonely  life,  he  should  have 
been  at  the  Deutscher  Club,  for  good  news  of  the  great  war 
had  come  through  private  channels,  and  the  brudernwere 
meeting  that  evening  to  celebrate,  in  good  German  drink, 
and  hearty  German  song,  and  sturdy  German  sentiment, 
the  promised  triumph.  Though  an  American  since  early 
boyhood,  Professor  George  B render  had  grown  old  in 
these  associations.  He  was  a  lover  of  sound  Rhenish  wine 
and  of  the  noble  literature  of  the  mighty  German  poets, 
and  of  that  tenderest  and  loveliest  and  simplest  of  all 
music,  the  Lieder  of  the  Fatherland,  and  above  all,  of  the 
close  comradeship  of  the  German- American  clan.  To 
night  he  was  giving  them  all  up.  He  had  been  forced  to 
the  sternest  decision  of  his  life.  Quite  simply  he  wished 
that  he  might  have  died  before  his  seventieth  year  had 
set  a  sword  in  his  hand  wherewith  he  must  now  sever  him 
self  from  past  loyalties  and  fellowships.  It  amounted  to 
that.  For,  torn  to  small  fragments  in  his  waste-basket, 
was  a  letter  upon  which  he  had  pondered  for  a  week;  a 
letter  from  another  German -American,  a  man  wise  and 
informed  and  clear  of  vision  and  of  spirit,  and  that  letter 
summoned  him,  in  the  name  of  a  lifelong  friendship,  now 
to  declare  himself.  From  the  first  reading,  he  had  known 
how  the  decision  must  fall.  The  Germany  of  world- 
domination,  of  the  "will  to  victory,"  of  the  torn  and  dis 
honored  "scrap  of  paper,"  of  terrorism  and  the  slaughter 
of  the  helpless,  and  violation  of  humanity's  laws  —  that 
was  not  his  Germany.  To  it  he  owed  no  real  allegiance. 
As  between  it  and  his  adoptive  country  he  could  no 


320  COMMON  CAUSE 

longer  hesitate.  He  was  an  American.  And  as  the  first 
step  toward  justifying  himself  to  his  own  soul,  George 
Brender,  Doctor  of  many  degrees  from  Universities  Ger 
man  and  American,  head  of  the  German  Department  of 
Old  Central,  feared  of  its  undergraduates  for  his  caustic 
tongue,  loved  of  its  graduates  for  his  leal  and  generous 
heart,  had  resigned  from  the  Deutscher  Club  of  Fenches- 
ter,  with  all  that  the  action  implies. 

The  gravest  events  of  the  cumulative  international  cri 
sis  did  not  more  deeply  stir  Fenchester  than  the  resigna 
tion  of  Professor  Brender.  Of  such  import  to  us  human 
toads  are  the  giant  ripples  upon  the  tiny  puddles  wherein 
we  mightily  splash !  Rumors  of  the  most  violent  and  in 
spiring  nature  were  passing  from  mouth  to  mouth  before 
his  letter  was  formally  announced  but  verification  of  his 
intent  had  been  wanting.  Neither  local  paper  had  touched 
it,  therefore.  So  the  story  grew  and  took  on  strange  em 
bellishments.  Professor  Brender  had  torn  down  the  Ger 
man  flag  from  over  the  Deutscher  Club  door  and  resigned 
rather  than  be  expelled.  Professor  Brender  had  called 
upon  the  Deutscher  Club  to  rise  and  sing  the  "Star- 
Spangled  Banner,"  and  had  resigned  in  fury  when  they 
refused.  Professor  Brender  had  denounced  the  Club  as 
traitors  and  been  thrown  out  bodily  by  President  Bausch. 
Professor  Brender  was  going  to  sue  the  Deutscher  Club. 
The  Deutscher  Club  was  going  to  sue  Professor  Brender. 
Gossip,  untrammeled  by  the  responsible  restraints  of 
print,  was  having  a  gala  day  over  the  affair.  Yet  all  that 
the  old  German  scholar  had  done  was  to  resign,  on  the 
ground  that  his  sympathies  must  henceforth  be  American 
and  not  German. 

Now  he  sat  in  his  study,  sorrowful  and  lonely,  seeking 


COMMON  CAUSE  321 

to  stem  the  tide  of  rumor  by  a  plain  statement  to  the 
press.  He  wrote  in  German,  for  thus  his  deeper  feelings 
best  expressed  themselves,  then  translated  into  simple 
and  gracious  English.  This  is  the  letter  of  Professor 
George  Brender,  as  offered  to  and  refused  (for  reasons  of 
policy)  by  The  Record,  but  published  conspicuously  by 
The  Guardian : 

I  have  grown  old  and  gray  in  the  service  of  the  German  tongue 
and  German  letters  in  America.  One  of  the  most  vivid  recollec 
tions  of  my  childhood  is  the  positive  declaration  of  the  German 
elders  that  I  was  not  a  German  but  an  Amerikaner.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  Americans  were  just  as  emphatic  in  their  declaration 
that  I  was  a  German.  Then  the  "hyphen"  came  to  the  rescue 
and  I  blossomed  out  into  a  German-American  with  a  dicken  Bind- 
estrich  (thick  hyphen).  Later  I  heard  that  the  Kaiser  had  given 
it  as  his  opinion  that  there  were  only  Germans  and  Americans. 
The  true  Americans  of  my  own  country  endorsed  this  point  of 
view.  So  I  concluded  that  I  would  have  to  make  a  place  in  the 
sun  for  myself. 

And  now,  with  the  snow  gathering  on  my  hair,  I  am  an  Ameri 
can  only:  nothing  more  (if  there  be  such)  and  surely  nothing  less. 

In  my  American  heart  there  is  and  always  will  be  a  shrine  dedi 
cated  to  that  which  came  into  my  life  from  the  soul  of  my  father 
and  mother.  But  they  have  long  ago  gone  into  the  land  from 
which  no  traveler  returns  and  they  have  left  a  son  who  can  love 
but  one  flag,  although  he  has  often  nailed  the  Star-Spangled  Ban 
ner  to  a  staff  of  good  solid  German  oak. 

I  am  now  an  old  man,  whose  work  is  almost  done.  I  cherish 
but  one  more  great  hope  —  that  on  the  stars  and  stripes  of  my 
country's  flag  there  shall  ultimately  be  written  the  gospel  which 
will  redeem  the  world  —  the  fatherhood  of  God  and  the  brother 
hood  of  man. 

When  he  had  finished  reading  that  letter,  Jeremy  Rob- 
son  dropped  his  head  between  his  doubled  fists  and  lost 
himself  in  thought.  It  was  not  pleasant  thought.  Self- 
reproach  was  a  burning  element  in  it.  Here  was  a  man 


322  COMMON  CAUSE 

German-born,  German-bred,  German  by  every  tie  of 
life  except  the  profounder  bonds  of  conscience  and  patri 
otism,  saying  to  the  German-Americans  of  Centralia, 
in  no  uncertain  tones,  that  which  he,  the  editor  of  The 
Guardian,  had  had  in  mind  to  say  —  when  the  time 
should  come.  And,  behold,  the  time  had  come!  Any  hour 
in  which  a  man  great  of  soul  and  clear  of  vision  to  meet 
the  issue  would  speak  out,  was  the  appointed  hour.  He, 
Jeremy  Robson,  despite  all  his  good  intentions  and  brave 
promises,  had  procrastinated  and  paltered  and  dallied, 
while  another,  with  far  more  to  lose,  had  lifted  the  banner 
and  set  it  up  for  a  challenge  to  the  disloyal,  the  unloyal, 
and  the  half -loyal.  A  sorry  enough  champion  Jeremy 
Robson  seemed  in  his  own  eyes !  Doubt  of  his  own  cour 
age,  smothered  under  the  pressing  emergencies  of  the  past 
few  months,  lifted  up  a  strident  and  whimpering  voice. 
And  that  was  a  doubt  with  which  young  Mr.  Robson 
could  not  live  on  any  terms. 

When  the  threat  of  war  had  loomed,  with  the  dismissal 
of  the  German  Ambassador,  The  Guardian  had  broached 
the  project  of  a  State  Council  of  Defense  in  a  plain- 
spoken  but  moderate  editorial.  Further,  it  had  urged  it 
upon  the  Governor  who,  with  unaccustomed  vacillation, 
had  evaded  and  procrastinated,  arguing  that  the  time  was 
not  yet  ripe,  and  that  the  plan  would  needlessly  compli 
cate  matters.  Naturally  the  more  rabid  German  press  fell 
foul  of  it  with  their  accustomed  shrillness.  Rather  than 
embarrass  Embree  at  the  time,  Jeremy  had  refrained 
from  following  up  his  first  editorial,  but  had  pressed  the 
scheme  upon  the  Governor  by  private  persuasions.  Now, 
in  the  stir  caused  by  Dr.  Brender's  call  to  the  flag,  he 
would  bring  it  out  again.  If  necessary  he  would  force  it 


COMMON  CAUSE  323 

upon  Embree,  who  could  not  well  withstand  a  direct  chal 
lenge  to  his  patriotism.  He  sketched  out  three  leaders  on 
the  topic ;  then  put  them  aside  and  wrote  the  opening  sen 
tence  of  that  editorial  which  was  to  declare  unequivocally 
the  status  of  The  Guardian.  Thus  to  declare  was  to  de 
clare  war. 

"The  hyphen  has  two  ends  but  no  middle." 
Mild  to  the  verge  of  banality,  in  wording.  Yet  the 
writer  well  appreciated  the  high-explosive  potency  of  that 
aphorism.  Even  without  what  followed,  it  would  be  taken 
up  as  a  defiance,  the  first  open  defiance  since  Magnus 
Laurens's  speech,  to  the  German-Americans  of  the  State. 
It  would  be  the  first  step  toward  putting  them  on  record. 
No  one  knew  better  than  the  owner  of  The  Guardian  that 
upon  the  editor  who  should  first  demand  of  the  Centralia 
hyphenates  that  they  declare  themselves  as  for  or  against 
the  United  States,  who  should  assume  the  initial  respon 
sibility  for  making  the  polyglot  Commonwealth  a  house 
divided  against  itself  in  treacherous  and  deadly  enmities, 
the  united  and  deliberate  vengeance  of  Deutschtum 
would  fall  in  every  practicable  form  of  reprisal.  Sharp 
as  was  the  offense  he  had  heretofore  given,  it  was  upon 
issues  of  minor  import  as  compared  to  this.  This  was 
final. 

When  the  emotions  are  deeply  engaged,  a  practiced  pen 
follows  the  thought  of  the  writer  almost  without  interrup 
tion.  At  the  conclusion  of  his  work,  Jeremy  read  it  over, 
altered  a  word  or  two,  not  in  the  way  of  modification  as  is 
the  tendency  of  re-casting,  but  from  weaker  to  stronger; 
then,  after  a  moment's  thought,  resumed  his  pencil  and 
with  extreme  care  and  neatness  —  as  a  young  officer  go 
ing  into  desperate  action  might  meticulously  brush  and 


324  COMMON  CAUSE 

set  his  uniform  —  inscribed  the  caption,  "Under  Which 
Flag?" 

He  then  did  an  unaccustomed  thing.  He  made  a  com 
plete  tour  of  The  Guardian  plant.  Why,  he  could  not 
have  said,  at  the  time.  Afterward  he  realized.  It  was  the 
pride  and  satisfaction  of  proprietorship  feeding  itself. 
Beneath  it  lay  the  unvoiced  monition,  warning  him  that 
it  might  not  be  for  long.  Nevertheless,  Jeremy  was 
happy.  He  had  been  in  a  defensive  fight  for  a  weary  length 
of  time.  Now,  at  last,  he  had  hit  out  from  the  shoulder. 

Transferred  into  typewriting  at  the  hands  (two-fin 
gered  at  the  exercise)  of  Mr.  Burton  Higman,  the  editorial 
had  gone  upstairs.  It  returned,  galley-proof,  in  the  hands 
of  Nicholas  Milliken. 

"This  yours?"  he  asked  of  the  editor. 

"Yes.  Why?" 

"Didn't  carry  any  O.K.  For  to-day?" 

"Yes." 

Milliken  lingered. 

"Well?"  said  Jeremy  sharply. 

"Pretty  hot  stuff,"  observed  the  Socialist.  "It'll  start 
something." 

"It  probably  will." 

"Somebody  pulled  a  couple  of  extra  proofs  on  me." 

"Somebody?  Who?" 

"Dunno.  Only  I  don't  want  to  be  held  responsible  if 
they  get  out  of  the  office  in  advance." 

The  proofs  were  already  out  of  the  office  and  on  their 
way  to  the  Deutscher  Club,  a  fact  concerning  which  Mr. 
Milliken  probably  had  his  shrewd  suspicions,  had  he 
cared  to  voice  them.  But  the  hyphen  editorial  was  not 
destined  to  burst  upon  the  German-American  world  of 


COMMON  CAUSE  325 

Fench ester  that  day.  For,  at  noon,  Max  Verrall  entered 
the  editor's  den,  his  brisk  eyes  alight. 

"Did  the  Governor  get  you? "  he  asked. 

"No.  What 'sup?" 

"State  Council  of  Defense.  He's  going  to  put  it 
through.  I 've  just  seen  him." 

"Good  business!" 

"Better  call  him  up.  He'll  tell  you  more." 

Jeremy  did  not  get  the  Governor,  but  his  private  secre 
tary  verified  Verrall's  report.  "Yes.  I  Ve  been  trying  to 
get  you.  The  preliminary  conference  is  set  for  to-morrow 
at  ten." 

"Short  notice,"  said  Jeremy,  surprised. 

"Call's  gone  out  over  the  wires.  Will  you  come  to  the 
Capitol  this  evening  to  talk  it  over  with  the  Governor?  " 

Jeremy  assented.  He  imparted  the  good  news  to  An 
drew  Galpin,  whom  he  had  sent  for  to  run  over  the  hyphen 
editorial.  "The  State  Council  of  Defense  is  going  through, 
Andy." 

"'Smiling  Mart'  has  climbed  off  the  fence,  has  he?  Or 
did  we  push  him  off?" 

Jeremy  frowned.  "  Nobody  pushes  Martin  Embree." 

"All  right,  Boss,"  conceded  the  other  good-humoredly. 
"He  can  certainly  push  himself  ably  when  the  occasion 
arises.  I  reckon  this  is  part  of  his  push  for  the  senator- 
ship." 

"Anyway,  Andy,  you'll  admit  that  this  State  Council 
move  proves  where  he  stands  on  Americanism." 

"I'll  admit  that,"  said  the  cautious  Galpin,  "when  I 
see  it  —  in  The  Guardian." 

"He'll  be  all  right,"  said  his  supporter  with  conviction, 
"now  that  the  issue  is  getting  clear." 


326  COMMON  CAUSE 

*'What  about  your  editorial,  now?" 

" Well,  what  about  it?" 

"Had  n't  that  better  wait  a  day  or  two?  You  don't 
want  to  muddy  up  the  water  unnecessarily.  If  the  State 
Council  move  is  on  the  level,  your  hyphen  stuff  will  only 
make  hard  sledding  for  Embree." 

"That's  right,  too.  I'll  put  it  on  the  hold-over  hook." 

Arriving  at  the  Executive  Office  at  seven-thirty, 
Jeremy  was  conscious  of  effort  in  the  Embreean  smile, 
conscientiously  directed  upon  him.  That  fine  wave  of  the 
gubernatorial  hair,  too,  so  suggestive  of  uplift  in  its 
stressful  rise  from  the  broad,  even  forehead,  seemed  to 
droop  a  bit.  Smiling  Mart  Embree  looked  like  a  man  who 
has  passed  the  night  in  a  sleepless  torment  of  the  mind. 

"Any  late  news  on  the  wires?"  he  asked  anxiously. 

"A  little.  All  of  one  kind." 

"Pointing  toward  war?" 

"War,"  said  the  editor  gravely. 

"There  must  be  some  way  out!"  The  Governor  lost 
himself  in  a  maze  of  thought.  "This  is  a  terrible  thing!" 
he  muttered  bitterly. 

"It  was  bound  to  come." 

"A  terrible  thing,"  repeated  Embree,  "for  me." 

"For  you?"  Jem  stared,  startled  at  the  out-cropping  of 
egotism. 

"For  all  of  us,"  hastily  amended  the  other.  "For  the 
Nation." 

"  I  'm  not  so  sure.  It  may  be  that  we  needed  it,  to  save 
us  from  ourselves." 

"What  is  one  to  do?  How  is  a  man  to  tell  what  course 
he  can  safely  take?"  said  the  Governor,  pursuing  his  own 
line  of  thought. 


COMMON  CAUSE  327 

"It  is  n't  exactly  a  time  for  Safety  First,  is  it?  There's 
only  one  course  for  a  decent  American." 

"That's  so  like  you,"  fretted  the  other.  "You  see  your 
own  side  and  nothing  else." 

"What  else  do  you  see?" 

"I  see  this  great  State  of  Centralia  which  has  chosen 
me  for  its  chief  official,"  retorted  Embree  with  a  touch  of 
that  exaltation  which,  his  enemies  sneered,  invariably 
crept  into  his  speech  when  it  dealt  with  his  political  self. 
"I  see  it  torn  and  racked  from  end  to  end,  and  aflame 
with  hatreds,  dissension,  and  distrust.  I  see  all  the  long 
fight  that  I  've  made  —  that  we  have  made  —  against 
corporation  control  of  the  State  gone  for  nothing  in  the 
new  political  issues.  Have  you  thought  of  that?" 

"Yes." 

"Well?" 

"It  does  n't  matter." 

"Not  matter!" 

"Not  if  we  go  to  war.  Nothing  else  matters  then  but 
ourselves  and  Germany.  We  Ve  got  to  think  of  the  coun 
try  as  a  whole  and  of  ourselves  just  as  a  part  of  it." 

"Oh,  I'm  for  the  country!"  proclaimed  Embree.  "Of 
course!  But  I'm  not  for  this  war  if  it  can  be  avoided." 

"It  can't  be." 

"Not  by  any  such  hot-headed,  reckless  course  as  The 
Guardian  is  laying.  You  're  doing  everything  but  yell  for 
war  and  the  blood  of  your  own  neighbors." 

Jeremy's  lip  protruded  obstinately.  "Is  that  the  view 
you  take  of  it?  We'll  do  more  to-morrow." 

"For  God's  sake,  Jem!  What  has  got  into  you?  How 
can  you  commit  yourself  to  such  a  policy  of  savagery?" 

"This  is  n't  going  to  be  a  polite  war,  Martin.   But  if 


328  COMMON  CAUSE 

I'm  a  savage,  at  least  I '11  be  an  American  savage;  not  a 
German  savage.  That's  all  we're  committed  to  in  The 
Guardian." 

"That 's  too  much.  It  is  n't  the  time  for  it." 

"Not  when  every  national  right  has  been  violated?''* 

"Forget  your  newspaper  rhetoric  and  listen  to  common 
sense.  Jem,  will  you  be  discreet  for  once  in  your  editorial 
life?" 

"I  doubt  it." 

"This  is  deadly  serious.  Listen:  Congress  is  going  to 
hear  from  the  country.  Appeals  are  going  to  be  made — " 

"Which  country?"  asked  Jeremy  with  intent. 

"Try  to  be  reasonable  about  this,"  pleaded  his  friend. 
"These  appeals  are  going  to  pour  in  on  Washington,  to 
stop  while  there's  time." 

"More  German  propaganda.  You've  answered  my 
question." 

"The  demand  of  a  peaceable  people  for  peace,"  con 
troverted  the  Governor  heatedly.  "At  the  same  time  the 
newspapers  all  over  the  country  will  be  urged  to  use  their 
influence  toward  keeping  us  out  of  a  war  that  can  mean 
nothing  but  injury  to  their  business.  We'll  show  that 
blundering  fool  in  Washington  — " 

His  visitor  stiffened  perceptibly  in  the  chair.  "Are  you 
speaking  of  the  President  of  the  United  States?"  he  de 
manded. 

"Oh,  between  four  walls,"  Embree  deprecated.  "Since 
when  did  you  swing  around  to  the  Schoolmaster?" 

"Since  he  gave  the  word  to  close  ranks." 

"He's  never  given  it.  His  whole  attitude  is  a  big  bluff. 
The  only  danger  is  that  the  hot-heads  will  make  capital  of 
it.  He  does  n't  intend  to  go  through  with  it." 


COMMON  CAUSE  329 

"You're  wrong  there." 

"If  he  does,  he  can't  do  it.  Congress  has  the  final 
word.  And  Congress  is  responsive  to  the  newspapers. 
Now,  Jem,  when  the  arguments  from  the  other  side  come 
to  The  Guardian—  " 

"We're  being  swamped  with  Jem  already;  machine- 
made  letters  to  the  editor,  fresh  every  hour  from  the 
Deutschtum  factory." 

"Give  them  a  fair  show.  Publish  them." 

"I'll  see  them  damned  first!" 

"Neutrality!"  commented  the  Governor  acidly. 

"War!"  retorted  the  owner  of  The  Guardian. 

With  an  obvious  effort  "Smiling  Mart"  summoned  his 
beam  from  out  the  gloom  and  set  it  on  guard  again. 

"When  it  comes  to  the  pinch  you  '11  find  me  as  ready  to 
fight  as  anybody,"  he  asserted.  "The  only  difference  be 
tween  your  position  and  mine  is  that  I  want  to  be  per 
fectly  sure  it's  right  and  inevitable." 

"The  State  Council  of  Defense  is  a  long  step  in  the 
right  direction." 

"  It  must  n't  be  too  long  a  step,  though,"  the  Governor 
pointed  out.  "It's  defense,  not  offense,  that's  our  pur 
pose.  By  the  way,  do  you  know  that  there  is  an  old  act  of 
the  Legislature  empowering  the  Governor  to  appoint  such 
a  body?" 

"Fine!"  said  Jeremy  heartily.  "Then  you  can  do  the 
whole  business  at  to-morrow's  meeting." 

"Yes;  but  I  thought  it  advisable  to  have  the  formal  ap 
proval  of  a  State-wide  representative  body,  such  as  I  Ve 
called  together,  for  the  moral  effect  —  and  the  political," 
he  added. 

"You've  made  it  non-partisan?"  asked  Jeremy. 


330  COMMON  CAUSE 

"Yes,  yes!  Of  course!  And  representative ;  representa 
tive  of  all  classes.  To  make  it  so  I  Ve  been  obliged  to  in 
clude  some  of  the  German  element." 

"  Certainly.  That 's  all  right,  as  long  as  they  are  n't  the 
'Deutschland  iiber  Alles'  lot." 

"Some  of  them,  I  'm  afraid,  don't  like  you  much ;  or  you 
them.  Now,  Jem,  don't  go  off  at  half-cock,"  he  added 
persuasively  as  the  other  looked  up  at  him  with  a  gleam 
of  discomposure.  "  I  can't  ignore  my  best  political  friends 
and  supporters,  can  I?  And  you  know  we  have  no  sol- 
ider,  more  influential  citizens  than  our  Germans." 

"But  what  about  their  loyalty?" 

"Don't  expect  too  much  of  them  right  now.  They'll 
be  all  right  when  the  test  comes." 

The  editor  thought  it  over. 

"Yes;  I  get  your  point.  If  you  go  back  on  'em  now 
they'll  slaughter  you  for  the  senatorship."  In  spite  of 
himself,  "Smiling  Mart"  Embree  winced.  "Well,  a  few 
of  'em  in  the  conference,  or  even  on  the  council,  can't  do 
any  harm;  in  fact,  it  may  serve  to  bring  'em  around,  unless 
they're  too  far  gone.  A  lot  depends  on  whom  you  ap 
point  chairman." 

"What's  your  idea  on  that?" 

"Magnus  Laurens." 

"Why  a  corporation  grafter?"  challenged  the  other, 
eyeing  him  narrowly;  "and  one  that's  always  fought  us 
and  may  fight  us  again  for  the  senatorship?" 

"He  is  n't  a  grafter." 

"He's  an  associate  of  grafters." 

"And  if  he  has  fought  us,  he's  fought  fair.  Also,  he's 
one  hundred  per  cent  American.  That's  the  big  consid 
eration  in  this  matter.  But  if  you  won't  stand  for  him, 


COMMON  CAUSE  331 

how  about  Corliess,  of  the  Lake  Belt  Line.  Cassius  Kim- 
ball  vouches  for  him." 

Governor  Embree  stared.  "First  a  water-power  baron 
and  then  a  public-utilities  manipulator,"  he  commented. 
"You're  chumming  up  with  some  queer  friends,  for  a 
radical,  Jem." 

"They're  no  friends  of  mine,"  retorted  the  editor. 
"You  know  that.  But  they're  men  we  can  trust  to  be 
right  on  this  war  question.  However,  any  one  will  do, 
provided  he's  big  enough,  loyal  to  the  bone,  and  repre 
sentative." 

"Leave  it  to  me,  Jem,"  said  the  Governor  with  his 
warmest  smile. 

Returning  to  his  den  for  the  purpose  of  preparing  an 
editorial  boosting  the  new  project  as  an  accomplished 
fact,  Jeremy  saw  a  light  in  the  business  office.  Amid 
ledgers  and  files  of  The  Guardian  sat  Andy  Galpin,  figur 
ing  profusely  upon  sheets  of  paper. 

"Hello,  Boss!"  was  his  greeting.  "I'm  trying  to  find 
out  where  we  stand  now." 

"What  do  you  make  of  it?" 

"Hard  sledding;  but  we'll  pull  through.  Always  sup 
posing  that  the  dam'  Botches '  —  thus,  now,  did  the  gen 
eral  manager  at  once  anathematize  and  Americanize 
that  element  whose  solidity  and  good  citizenship  all  po 
litical  parties  so  warmly  and  officially  endorsed  —  "don't 
lift  too  much  of  our  advertising,  in  return  for  your  few 
well-chosen  remarks  upon  the  hyphen.  They'll  be  after 
us  hot-foot,  sure."  After  a  pause  he  added:  "They've 
been  working  on  ' Smiling  Mart.'" 

"It  has  n't  done  them  much  good  so  far." 

"On  Verrall,  too.  He's  so  far  up  in  the  air  that  his  nose 


332  COMMON  CAUSE 

is  turning  blue.  And  something 's  up  in  the  press-room.  I 
think  it's  that  big  gorilla,  Girdner.  He's  a  Botch;  be 
longs  to  their  club.  Milliken;  he's  another  trouble- 
hunter.  The  Socialist.  Wish  I  could  pin  something  on 
him  and  fire  him.  Well,  you  've  got  troubles  enough  with 
out  that.  Sorry  I  spoke.  .  .  .  Have  a  pleasant  evening 
with  the  Governor?" 

"Pleasant  enough." 

"Hope  the  morning  will  be  as  good,"  retorted  Galpin, 
and  hunched  himself  back  into  his  calculations. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  hyphen  editorial  spent  the  following  morning 
on  the  hook.  Its  author  gave  it  an  affectionate  and 
yearning  glance  as  he  passed  early  to  his  desk  to  touch  up 
his  substitute  leader  on  the  State  Council  of  Defense. 
Once  fully  determined  upon  the  casting  of  his  verbal 
bomb,  he  was  eager  for  the  explosion  and  the  resultant 
battle  which  should  end  the  armed  truce.  But,  as  An 
drew  Galpin  had  said,  fair  play  demanded  that  he  hold  off 
now,  lest  he  hamper  the  development  of  the  Governor's 
new  plan.  Any  time  was  suitable  for  his  challenge.  Mean 
while  copies  of  it  from  the  stolen  galleys  had  been  circu 
lated  among  the  elect  of  Deutschtum,  and  a  synopsis 
taken  to  Governor  Embree.  He  had  bidden  his  inform 
ants  not  to  worry.  There  would  be  no  occasion  for  the 
publication  of  that  screed.  A  plan  was  already  com 
pleted  which  would  take  care  of  Mr.  Robson.  It  was  ob 
served  that  the  Governor  looked  weary  but  optimistic. 

Short  though  the  notice  had  been,  the  invited  confer 
ees  responded  to  the  official  call  for  a  meeting  upon  the 
State  Council  of  Defense  plan,  almost  unanimously.  It 
was  a  curiously  assorted  gathering  that  surrounded  the 
long  table  in  the  council  room,  when  Jeremy  Robson  ar 
rived,  a  trifle  late  from  his  work  of  re-casting  the  day's 
page.  That  it  was  broadly  representative  was  beyond 
denial.  Yet  as  the  newcomer  reckoned  it  up,  he  felt  a 
more  than  vague  uneasiness. 
Appropriating  the  nearest  vacant  chair  he  found  him- 


334  COMMON  CAUSE 

self  between  a  down-state  lawyer  and  politician  named 
Lerch  on  one  side,  and  Cassius  Kimball,  of  The  Bellair 
Journal,  on  the  other.  Next  to  Kimball  sat  State  Senator 
Bredle  from  Embree's  county,  beyond  him  a  lake-dis 
trict  dairyman  of  indeterminate  political  sympathies,  and 
then  Gordon  Fliess,  of  the  Fliess  Brewing  Company,  the 
Lieutenant-Governor,  an  imposing  and  obsequious  pup 
pet  of  the  Governor's,  and  Ernst  Bauer  of  the  Marlitts- 
town  Herold  und  Zeitung.  Bunched  at  the  upper  end  of 
the  table  were  an  ill-assorted  trio  of  The  Guardian's  ene 
mies,  Montrose  Clark,  Judge  Dana,  and  that  anomaly 
of  Teutonic  type-reversion,  Robert  Wanser,  grandson  of 
the  Young  Germany  of  '48. 

In  the  other  direction,  the  prospect  was  no  less  puzzling 
nor  more  reassuring.  Half  a  dozen  men  from  the  South 
ern  Tier,  a  section  unfamiliar  to  Jeremy,  suggested  a 
predominance  of  the  Swedish  type,  which,  in  Centralia, 
meant  anti-war  sentiment.  Concerning  the  next  figure, 
tall,  plethoric,  ceremonially  garbed,  there  was  at  least  no 
uncertainty.  Emil  Bausch's  local  letter- writing  bureau 
of  German  propaganda  was  at  that  moment  represented 
in  The  Guardian's  waste-basket  by  half  a  dozen  grossly 
pro-German  and  subtly  anti-American  communications 
to  the  editor.  Bausch  had  for  neighbor  that  fire-eating 
Seminarian,  the  Reverend  Theo  Gunst,  next  to  whom,  in 
turn,  sat  Arthur  Betts,  of  Kelter  &  Betts,  looking  un 
comfortable  but  flattered.  Milliken,  presumptively  rep 
resenting  the  Socialist  element,  flanked  him  on  the  far 
side  with  Girdner,  appearing  for  Labor,  on  his  left. 

But  when  Jeremy's  anxious  glance  finally  reached  the 
Governor's  high  chair  he  breathed  a  temporary  sigh  of 
relief.  In  the  place  of  honor,  on  the  right  of  the  guberna- 


COMMON  CAUSE  335 

torial  smile,  sat  Magnus  Laurens.  Surely  that  indicated 
an  acceptance  by  Embree  of  Jeremy's  argument;  Laurens 
was  to  be  appointed  chairman  of  the  council,  after  all. 
The  Governor's  left  was  occupied  by  Ensign,  the  million 
aire  absentee  owner  of  The  Record.  In  a  less  crowded 
moment  Jeremy  would  have  given  some  thought  to  this 
curious  preferment.  Directly  across  the  table  from  the 
central  group  there  protruded  loftily  from  between  a 
pursy  judge  and  a  northwestern  corn -raiser,  a  figure  tall, 
stiff,  and  meager,  a  lean,  hard -wood  lath  of  a  man  lost  in 
the  dim,  untroubled  contemplation  of  an  awful  example 
of  political  portraiture  on  the  far  wall.  Why  Professor 
Rappelje  should  have  been  included,  Jeremy  could  not 
surmise,  unless  it  was  that  Governor  Embree  could  count 
upon  him  as  an  unquestioning  follower  through  thick  and 
thin.  In  fact  the  whole  composition  of  the  meeting  sug 
gested  that  the  summons  had  been  apportioned  with  a 
view  to  safe  control  by  the  Governor. 

To  the  watchful  Jeremy  it  seemed  that  Governor  Em 
bree  was  nervous.  The  smile  at  the  corners  of  the  concili 
atory  lips  was  disturbed  by  a  restless  twitching.  After  an 
anxiously  calculating  glance  over  the  assemblage  he  be 
gan  to  read  from  a  typed  sheet  a  preamble,  concluding: 
"Therefore,  I  present  for  the  consideration  of  this  honor 
able  body  the  following  names  to  constitute  the  Cen- 
tralia  State  Council  of  Defense." 

The  first  nomination  fell  upon  Jeremy's  ears  like  a 
burst  of  thunder.  It  was  that  of  Emil  Bausch,  chairman. 

The  second  nomination  fell  upon  his  brain  like  a  bludg 
eon.  It  was  that  of  Jeremy  Robson,  vice-chairman. 

From  down  the  table  he  caught  the  confirmatory  sneer 
of  Montrose  Clark.  His  eyes  darted  to  Magnus  Laurens, 


336  COMMON  CAUSE 

squarest  and  most  honorable  of  enemies,  and  met  in  his 
face  a  wrathful  contempt.  Cassius  Kimball  leaned  to  him 
and  whispered: 

" First  you  knew  of  it?" 

"Yes." 

"He's  put  it  over  on  you." 

Jeremy  sat  in  a  daze.  His  mind  was  confused  by  the 
suddenness  of  the  thrust;  his  will  was  blurred.  Instinc 
tively  he  felt  that  he  must  do  something.  But  what? 
Protest?  Decline  to  serve?  Announce  his  attitude?  And 
already  his  time  was  past !  The  monotonous,  fateful  read 
ing  had  gone  beyond  him. 

Wanser  and  Fliess,  Kimball,  Laurens,  ex-Governor 
Scudder,  Montrose  Clark,  the  Reverend  Theo  Gunst, 
Lieutenant-Governor  Maxwell,  Ensign,  Bredle,  Girdner, 
Ivanson,  the  Swede,  and  so  on  with  the  German  and 
pacifist  element  always  slightly  but  safely  in  the  major 
ity.  Not  a  word  was  spoken,  except  once  when  in  a  brief 
breathing-pause  some  one  shot  out,  like  an  arrow  through 
the  tense  quiet,  the  contemptuous  monosyllable: 

"Packed!" 

Jeremy  thought  that  he  identified  the  voice  as  that  of 
Judge  Selden  Dana.  Then  the  reader  pronounced  the 
name  of  Professor  Harvey  Rappelje. 

"Wait!"  said  that  gentleman. 

"Order!  Order!"  protested  Wanser  and  Bausch  with 
suspicious  readiness. 

"I  am  in  order,"  retorted  the  economist,  rising  in  his 
place  to  confront  the  Governor  opposite. 

The  Governor  smiled,  but  thrust  out  a  nervous  tongue 
and  licked  the  corners  of  the  smile.  The  professor's  face 
was  as  set  and  still  as  a  frozen  river,  and  much  the  same 


COMMON  CAUSE  337 

color.  Embree,  motioning  with  a  placating  hand  for  si 
lence,  resumed:  "The  Honorable  Carter  N.  Rock—" 

"Wait!"  The  scholar's  keener  voice  cut  off  the  read 
ing.  "  I  rise  to  a  point  of  order,  sir." 

"State  the  point." 

"Governor  Embree,  is  that  your  honest  conception  of  a 
council  to  fight  this  war?" 

"Out  of  order!"  cried  Bausch  again,  and  was  reinforced 
by  Girdner,  Fliess,  and  others.  "Who  said  fight?"  "We 
are  not  making  war."  "Keep  to  the  point."  "Discussion 
is  not  in  order."  "Sit  down." 

But  the  hard  challenge  of  the  professor's  glare  com 
pelled  the  Governor.  "It  is  my  carefully  considered  se 
lection,"  said  he  with  a  suggestion  of  sulkiness. 

There  leapt  from  Rappelje's  lips  a  blasting  oath.  From 
any  mouth  in  that  environment  it  would  have  been  star 
tling.  From  the  lean  dry,  silent,  repressed  scholar  it  had 
something  of  the  shock  of  nature's  forces  in  outbreak. 
Not  less  appalling  was  the  single  word  to  follow : 

"Treason!" 

Embree's  smile  did  not  fade;  but  it  shriveled  into  a 
masklike  grimace,  the  rictus  of  a  child  before  the  convul 
sion  racks  it. 

"You  —  you  will  retract  — "he  began  chokingly. 

Two  astounding  tears  welled  from  the  scholar's  pale 
eyes,  tears  of  a  still  man's  uttermost  fury. 

"I  will  demonstrate  to  you,"  said  he  precisely,  "what 
it  is  to  fight." 

He  launched  himself  across  the  table  at  the  Governor's 
throat. 

The  steel-framed  Laurens  seized  and  forced  him  back; 
but  not  before  Embree  had  collapsed  into  his  chair.  From 


338  COMMON  CAUSE 

his  place,  up  the  table,  the  Lieutenant-Governor,  quite 
beside  himself,  squealed  for  a  totally  imaginary  sergeant- 
at-arms.  The  corn-belt  farmer,  in  thunderous  tones  with 
a  wailing  inflection  besought  any  and  all  not  to  forget 
that  they  were  gentlemen.  Girdner,  huge  and  formi 
dable,  had  jumped  to  his  feet.  The  white-haired,  alert 
Milliken  caught  up  a  heavy  paper-weight.  Bausch  was 
solemnly,  almost  sacrificially  taking  off  his  coat.  A  med 
ley  of  voices  demanded  " Order!"  " Throw  him  out!" 
"Arrest  him!"  There  were  all  the  elements  of  a  lively 
and  scandalous  melee,  waiting  only  the  fusing  act. 

Laurens  checked  it  with  one  sufficient  threat.  Bran 
dishing  the  weighty  official  gavel  of  lignum  vitae,  he  stood, 
a  modern  Thor,  in  the  unconscious  pose  and  with  the 
menace  of  the  Berseker,  and,  in  a  full-throated  bellow 
proclaimed : 

"  I  '11  brain  the  first  man  that  strikes  a  blow." 

Before  that  intimidation  they  dropped  into  their 
chairs.  There  was  a  ripple  of  the  shamed  and  foolish 
laughter  of  self-realization  as  the  strain  eased.  The  war 
rior-scholar's  neighbors,  who  had  been  holding  him  in  his 
chair,  felt  his  limbs  relax,  and  mistakenly  thinking  his 
effort  spent,  released  him.  Instantly  he  rose. 

"I  apologize  to  this  honorable  body,"  he  said  with 
quiet  courtesy,  "and  to  the  State  of  Centralia  as  repre 
sented  by  its  chief  executive.  And,  as  a  question  of  privi 
lege  preliminary  to  my  resignation,  I  ask  whether  the  list 
as  read  is  to  stand." 

"  I  will  not  submit  to  be  bulldozed  or  intimidated,"  de 
clared  the  Governor  huskily. 

"The  list  stands?"  persisted  the  other. 

"  It  stands,  subject  to  the  approval  of  this  body." 


COMMON  CAUSE  339 

" Doubtless  you  can  carry  it,"  conceded  the  objector, 
ranging  the  assemblage  with  his  clear  and  contemptuous 
glance. 

"  Vote,"  piped  up  an  uncertain  and  tentative  voice. 

"But  you  would  be  well  advised  not  to  make  the  at 
tempt." 

Martin  Embree  conceived  that  the  proper  course  now 
was  to  ignore  this  unforeseen  assailant  of  his  plan.  "  I  will 
proceed  with  the  reading,"  he  announced. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  relentless  and  polite 
voice.  "One  moment.  You  will  have  until  this  evening 
to  withdraw  your  list." 

"And  vot  then?  Vot  then?"  broke  in  Emil  Bausch, 
thrusting  upward  a  truculent  face. 

"  Do  you  want  civil  war  in  thisState?  "  challenged  Fliess. 

"If  necessary,"  retorted  Rappelje,  and  stared  him 
down  with  a  steady  and  intolerable  eye.  He  turned  again 
to  the  Governor.  "Unless  that  list  is  withdrawn  before 
night,  Martin  Embree,"  said  he  solemnly,  "so  help  me 
the  God  of  my  country,  I  will  raise  the  University  and 
hang  you  to  the  highest  tree  on  the  campus." 

He  made  a  stiff,  formal,  absurd  little  jerk  of  a  bow  and 
marched  from  the  room. 

"By  gosh!  He's  the  boy  could  do  it,"  confirmed  Milli- 
ken  in  an  unexpectedly  cheerful  chirp. 

"Finish  the  reading,"  said  somebody  weakly. 

"Vote !  Vote ! "  came  a  mutter  of  several  voices. 

No  vote  was  taken.  Under  the  corroding  acid  of  the 
professor's  passion  the  fabric  of  that  meeting's  purpose 
dissolved.  The  session  did  not  adjourn.  It  disintegrated. 
Jeremy  Robson  stood  irresolute  as  the  groups  edged  past 
him. 


340  COMMON  CAUSE 

"Congratulations,  Mr.  Vice-Chairman,"  purred  Mont- 
rose  Clark.  It  was  the  first  time  since  the  interview  about 
the  note  that  he  had  conceded  the  fact  of  the  editor's  ex 
istence. 

"Bad  politics,  my  boy!  Bad  politics!"  said  Judge 
Dana,  his  head  wagging  with  reprehension,  but  a  mali 
cious  twinkle  in  his  somnolent  eyes. 

Cassius  Kimball  set  a  friendly  hand  on  Jeremy's  shoul 
der.  "Pretty  shrewd  of  old  Martin,  eh?"  he  observed. 
"But  we  can  square  that,  among  us.  Let  me  know  what 
you  want  The  Journal  to  do." 

Jeremy  nodded  his  gratitude,  but  did  not  move.  Lau- 
rens  was  the  man  he  wanted  to  see,  to  set  himself  right 
before.  Moreover,  with  him  as  leader  a  counter-stroke 
could  be  planned  to  bring  Embree  to  his  senses.  The  vik 
ing  form  strode  toward  him. 

"Mr.  Laurens,"  began  Jeremy,  "I  want — " 

"Stand  out  of  my  way!"  warned  the  magnate,  and 
swerving  not  an  inch  from  his  stride,  he  jostled  the  other 
aside.  But  for  Kimball's  quick  interposition  Jeremy's 
fury  would  have  launched  him  upon  the  insulter. 

"Steady!"  soothed  that  experienced  diplomat.  "You 
come  outside  with  me,  and  cool  off." 

"No,"  said  Jeremy,  mastering  himself.  "I've  got  to 
wait.  I  Ve  got  to  see  the  Governor." 

"But  has  he  got  to  see  you?"  inquired  the  other  sug 
gestively. 

"He  has,"  said  Jeremy  with  grim  positiveness. 

Governor  Embree  had  closeted  himself  with  Wanser, 
Bausch,  and  Fliess.  He  sent  out  word  that  he  would  see 
Mr.  Robson  in  half  an  hour. 

Jeremy  telephoned  to  Andrew  Galpin  to  hold  the  edi- 


I  WILL  RAISE  THE  UNIVERSITY  AND  HANG  YOU  TO 
THE  HIGHEST  TREE  ON  THE  CAMPUS" 


COMMON  CAUSE  341 

torial  page  make-up  open.  He  strolled  to  the  window  and 
got  an  unpleasant  shock.  Montrose  Clark,  Judge  Dana, 
and  Nicholas  Milliken  were  standing  in  earnest  confer 
ence,  near  one  of  the  park  benches.  The  Socialist,  the 
public  utilitarian  grafter,  and  the  legal  manipulator!  It 
came  back  to  Jeremy's  mind  that,  according  to  Galpin, 
there  was  a  leak  of  information  from  The  Guardian  office 
to  the  Fenchester  Public  Utilities  Corporation.  Milliken 
was  perhaps  the  go-between,  unlikely  though  such  an  as 
sociation  might  seem,  at  first  thought.  He  would  speak 
to  Galpin  about  it.  Meantime  he  had  another  editorial 
to  outline,  and  set  about  it,  seated  at  the  table  across 
which  the  first  real  action  of  the  war  in  Centralia  had 
just  been  fought  to  an  indeterminate  result. 

A  buzz  of  guttural  voices  inside  the  door  interrupted 
him.  Glancing  at  the  clock  he  was  astonished  to  see  that 
it  marked  twenty  minutes  of  one.  The  half-hour  had 
grown  into  more  than  an  hour.  An  inner  door  opened  and 
the  waiting  man  heard  Smiling  Mart  Embree's  weary 
but  clear- toned  "That  can  wait,  gentlemen."  The  Ger 
mans  passed  Jeremy,  Wanser  giving  him  a  civil  word  and 
Bausch  nodding  sardonically,  as  one  might  to  a  none-too- 
welcome  accomplice  by  compulsion. 

"Come  in,  Jem,"  summoned  the  Governor,  and  the 
editor  of  The  Guardian  advanced  to  confront  his  long 
time  friend,  aide,  and  ally. 


CHAPTER  X 

ADMIRATION  was  Jeremy's  first  impulse  as  he  faced 
Martin  Embree.  The  man  had  so  quickly  and  surely 
recovered  his  poise.  Serenity  was  in  his  tired  smile,  and 
the  assurance  that  from  Jeremy  he  would  have  under 
standing  and  sympathy.  To  destroy  that  childlike  and 
beaming  confidence  was  a  thing  smacking  of  brutality. 
Jeremy  fought  off  a  temptation  to  temporize  and  went  to 
the  point  at  once. 

"Why  did  you  appoint  me  vice-chairman  without  con 
sulting  me  in  advance?  " 

The  Governor's  smile  became  both  confident  and  con 
fiding.  "  Because  you  're  the  man  for  the  place.  We  need 
you  there." 

"Or  because  you  thought  it  would  tie  my  hands." 

" Tie  your  hands?" 

"Keep  The  Guardian  quiet." 

"The  Guardian  has  to  keep  quiet,  anyway.  It's  the 
only  course  open  to  it." 

"Is  it?"  said  Jeremy  significantly. 

"Is  n't  it?  Reason  it  out  for  yourself .  Either  we 're  go 
ing  to  get  into  this  war  or  we're  going  to  keep  out  of  it." 

"We're  going  to  get  into  it." 

"  I  don't  believe  it.  But  admit  that  we  are.  Until  we  're 
in  it,  it's  our  business,  those  of  us  who  have  influence,  to 
use  it  in  keeping  peace  at  home." 

"While  the  Germans  at  home  work  out  Germany's 
plans." 

"Bosh!  Germany's  real  plans  are  to  keep  this  nation 


COMMON  CAUSE  343 

at  peace.  She  does  n't  want  us  in  the  war.  And  we  cer 
tainly  don't  want  to  get  in." 

"No.  We  don't  want  to.   But  we're  being  forced  to." 

"Wait  until  the  real  underlying  public  sentiment  as 
serts  itself." 

"It's  asserting  itself  now." 

"No,  no,  Jem.  Jingoism  always  makes  the  loud  noise. 
But  jingoism  is  n't  Americanism.  The  one  thing  America 
won't  do  is  to  go  into  a  losing  war." 

"We  can  make  it  a  winning  war." 

"If  it  were  truly  our  war,  we  could.  But  the  people 
are  n't  for  it.  They  never  will  be  for  it.  Now  look  at  the 
situation  in  this  State,  in  the  light  of  what  is  coming  in 
Europe.  Germany  is  sure  to  win.  This  State  splits  about 
even  now  between  German  sympathizers  and  the  others 
represented  by  the  pro-British  and  those  who  don't  really 
know  where  they  do  stand.  Only,  the  Germans  have  got 
the  solidarity  and  the  others  are  divided." 

"You  're  right  in  that,  anyway." 

"Very  well.  After  Germany  has  won,  it'll  be  all  pro- 
German  here.  That 's  our  American  way  of  it.  We 're  all 
for  success.  Then  where  will  a  newspaper  be  that  has 
taken  the  losing  side?" 

"Can't  you  see,  Martin,  that  we're  practically  in  the 
war  now?" 

"Jingo  talk!  If  the  capitalist  crowd  could  drive  us  into 
it  we'd  be  in  now.  It's  the  duty  of  good  Americans,  and 
particularly  of  every  American  newspaper,  to  stand  solid 
against  it." 

"Is  that  the  principle  on  which  you  appointed  your 
State  Council  of  Defense?" 

"Of  course  it  is!   I 've  drafted  a  body  of  men  who  can 


344  COMMON  CAUSE 

be  trusted  not  to  rush  us  madly  into  this  damnable  mess. 
That's  our  real,  our  best  possible  defense  —  to  keep  at 
peace." 

"Very  pretty  sophistry !  How  far  do  you  think  it  would 

go  with  a  real  American?  Harvey  Rappelje,  for  instance?  " 

The  Governor's  eager  face  darkened.    "That  crazy 

fool!"  he  blurted  out.    "Who  could  have  foreseen  that 

he  Jd  break  over ! " 

"He  did  what  each  of  us  ought  to  have  done  in  his 
turn." 

"  Don't  say  that,  Jem ! "  implored  the  other.  "  I'm  about 
beside  myself  over  this  Rappelje  business  now." 
"Afraid?"  Jeremy  looked  at  him  curiously. 
"Of  his  mad-dog  threat?  No." 

"Yet  the  boys  at  Old  Central  would  follow  him  in  any 
thing.  Curious  that  such  a  type  should  take  hold  on  the 
youngsters'  imagination,  isn't  it?  It's  the  fire  at  the 
heart  of  him,  I  suppose." 

"The  maggot  in  his  brain ! "  returned  the  other  fiercely. 
"He 's  crazy  enough  to  try  his  mob  scheme." 
"If  he  tries,  he'll  carry  it  through." 
"Against  a  company  of  the  National  Guard?"  said  the 
official  contemptuously.   "I  could  have  them  here  in  ten 
minutes." 

"That  would  mean  bloodshed." 

"It's  what  I  dread.  Some  of  those  young  idiots  might 
be  killed." 

"And  their  ghosts  rise  up  between  you  and  the  sena- 
torship,"  pointed  out  Jeremy.  "If  the  charge  of  official 
murder  were  raised  against  you,  it  would  kill  your 
chances.  Rappelje  may  have  figured  that  out,  though  I 
would  n't  suppose  he'd  be  so  keen  in  politics." 


COMMON  CAUSE  345 

Black  shadows  of  brooding  settled  upon  Embree's 
handsome  face. 

"I'll  arrest  that  frantic  fool  of  a  professor,"  he  mut 
tered.  "I'll  arrest  him  now.  Nobody  can  call  me  a 
traitor!" 

Jeremy  made  up  his  mind,  and  struck: 

"Can't  they?  Read  to-night's  Guardian." 

"T-t-to-night's —  Wh-wh-what!"  stuttered  Embree. 
"Jem!  You're  not  going  back  on  me?" 

"Going  back  on  you!  Have  n't  you  gone  back  on  me? 
Have  n't  you  gone  back  on  the  State?  On  the  country? 
Did  n't  you  pledge  yourself  to  appoint  a  representative 
American  Council  of  Defense?  Where  did  you  get  your 
list?  By  cable  from  Berlin?" 

"What  are  you  trying  to  do?  Provoke  a  fight?"  re 
torted  the  other  fiercely. 

"Make  you  wipe  out  that  council  of  Germans." 

"  I  won't  be  bulldozed  and  blackmailed ! "  shouted  Em 
bree  in  the  loud  wrath  of  a  weak  man  cornered. 

"Then  it's  the  lynching  party  and  the  end  of  you  polit 
ically.  We'll  have  an  interview  with  Rappelje  in  this 
evening's  paper.  He'll  talk.  That  silent  kind  always  do, 
once  they  break  over." 

The  Governor  collapsed. 

"Wait!"  he  pleaded.  "Give  me  time  to  think." 

He  walked  to  the  window  and  stared  out  toward  the 
east  —  his  Mecca  —  Washington.  When  he  turned,  his 
face  was  so  haggard  that  Jeremy  felt  a  stab  of  remorse ; 
but  Embree  contrived  to  summon  the  fleeting  wraith  of 
that  once  bounteous  smile. 

"You've  got  me,"  he  admitted.  "I'll  make  another 
list.  Wait  while  I  outline  it." 


346  COMMON  CAUSE 

"  No.  I  Ve  got  to  go  to  the  office." 

11  Come  back  here  in  an  hour,  then.  I  '11  have  it  ready." 

The  hour  Jeremy  put  in  in  outlining  to  Galpin  and 
Verrall  the  probable  new  course  of  the  paper.  Galpin  was 
grimly  pleased. 

"I  knew  we'd  have  to  quit  him." 

"It's  the  end  of  the  paper,"  prophesied  Verrall,  pale 
and  shaken. 

Governor  Embree  was  almost  his  normal  self  with  al 
most  his  normal  smile,  when  Jeremy  returned  to  the  Capi 
tol.  His  revised  list  was  one  which  needed  no  defense.  It 
was  preponderantly  American,  though  with  many  of  the 
prominent  German  names  left,  it  is  true,  and  the  addition 
of  Professor  Brender  and  another  loyal  German-Ameri 
can.  Magnus  Laurens  had  been  substituted  for  Bausch 
as  chairman.  Jeremy's  name  remained  as  vice-chairman. 

"Is  that  good  enough?"  asked  the  Governor. 

"Yes.  That's  a  real  Council  of  Defense." 

"Then  The  Guardian  will  stand  for  it?" 

"To  the  finish." 

Smiling  Mart  Embree  swallowed  hard  and  beamed 
anxiously  upon  the  other. 

"What  about  me?" 

"No."  The  negative  was  bluntly  final. 

"My  God,  Jem!  What  more  could  you  ask?" 

"A  leader  who  can  be  trusted  to  be  American." 

"This  is  the  parting  of  the  ways,  then?" 

"The  finish."  Something  in  Jeremy's  throat  was  hurt 
ing  him  so  that  he  could  hardly  speak.  And  he  could  not, 
for  anything,  look  at  Martin  Embree.  Then  Embree 
made  it  easier  for  him. 

"And  after  all  the  years  I've  stood  by  you!"  he  cried 


COMMON  CAUSE  347 

angrily.  "You  turncoat!  You  don't  know  what  loyalty 
is!" 

11  I've  got  pretty  definite  notions  as  to  disloyalty." 

Embree  seized  a  pen  and  crossed  Jeremy's  name  off 
the  revised  list,  with  a  pen  that  ripped  through  the  paper. 

"All  right,"  said  the  victim  evenly.  "Who  goes  in  as 
vice-chairman?" 

"That's  for  me  to  say." 

"You're  still  expecting  The  Guardian  to  support  the 
council?" 

Embree's  throat  contracted  with  impotent  fury.  "  I  '11 
put  in  Clarence  Ensign." 

An  impulse  of  pity  rose  within  the  other.  "You  can't 
do  anything  with  The  Record  crowd,  Martin,"  he  said. 
"How can  they  play  your  game?  I  don't  suppose  you're 
going  back  on  your  corporation  policies." 

"  No,  I  'm  not.   But  you  —  " 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  We'll  be  with  you  on  that." 

"With  me,  after  you've  stuck  a  knife  in  me!"  The 
conviction  of  having  suffered  unmerited  wrong,  ever  at 
call  in  an  egoist's  soul,  surged  to  Embree's  pale  lips. 
"You've  sold  out  to  the  corporation  gang.  That's  what 
you  Ve  done,"  he  accused.  "You  've  sold  me  out." 

The  bitter  and  withered  face  of  the  man  who  had  been 
his  friend  oppressed  Jeremy  with  a  sense  of  tragedy. 

"Good-bye,  Mart,"  he  said.  "  I  'm  sorry  it  — it  had  to 
be  this  way." 

"You  have  cause.  You'll  be  sorrier."  The  smile  was  a 
little  crooked  now,  with  a  hint  of  fangs  at  the  corner. 
"I'm  a  poor  forgetter,  Robson.  Particularly  when  it's 
my  friends  who  betray  me,"  he  added,  calling  out  the  last 
words  after  the  departing  visitor. 


348  COMMON  CAUSE 

So  there  was  no  interview  with  Professor  Rappelje  in 
that  evening's  paper.  Nor  did  any  account  of  the  viva 
cious  proceedings  of  the  conference  appear.  These  the 
editor  of  The  Guardian  deemed  to  be  confidential.  Nev 
ertheless,  there  was  no  dearth  of  interesting  matter  in 
that  issue.  The  announcement  of  the  State  Council  of 
Defense  personnel  stirred  up  hearty  approval  among  a 
large  element  and  grievous  surprise  and  wrath  in  other 
quarters.  Further  to  enrage  the  aggrieved  Germans,  The 
Guardian's  clear  challenge,  "Under  Which  Flag?"  re 
trieved  at  the  last  moment  from  the  hook  and  double- 
leaded  for  emphasis,  set  the  two  ends  of  the  hyphen  to 
bristling  mutually,  and  surcharged  the  air  with  more 
electricity  than  it  could  comfortably  contain. 

In  its  next  issue,  The  Guardian  sprang  another  sensa 
tion  by  formally  forswearing  its  support  of  Governor  Em- 
bree.  Its  leader  for  the  day,  under  the  heading  "He  Who 
is  Not  For  Us  is  Against  Us,"  established  a  local  and  defini 
tive  test  of  Americanism,  and  declared  all  other  questions 
and  issues  subordinate  to  the  critical  interests  of  the  Na 
tion  as  a  whole.  The  Guardian  would  remain  steadfast 
to  the  internal  policies  and  reforms  which  Governor  Em- 
bree  had  instituted.  It  could  not  and  would  not  support 
him  for  the  United  States  Senate,  believing,  as  it  must, 
that  to  elect  him  would  be  to  place  a  putative  enemy 
agent  in  that  body. 

Martin  Embree  answered  through  the  columns  of  The 
Record.  The  slanderous  assertions  of  The  Guardian,  he 
stated,  would  later  be  cited  for  proof  before  the  courts. 
The  Record  gave  him  two  mildly  supporting  editorials, 
but  did  nothing  to  indicate  an  alliance.  Thus  Embree  was 
forced  to  enter  the  crucial  campaign  of  his  political  career 


COMMON  CAUSE  349 

without  local  editorial  support.  At  the  same  time  The 
Bellair  Journal  quit  him. 

The  greater  necessity  that  he  should  keep  himself  be 
fore  the  public  in  the  news.  His  projected  libel  suit 
against  The  Guardian  would  be  one  method.  After  con 
siderable  delay  the  suit  was  filed. 

But  here  again  the  unlucky  politician  missed  fire.  No 
body  paid  much  heed  to  his  libel  action.  For,  on  the  day 
when  it  was  instituted,  the  patience  of  a  long-enduring 
President  and  people  broke  and  the  Government  of  the 
United  States  of  America  bared  the  sword  between  the 
flag  and  its  insulters  overseas. 


CHAPTER  XI 

HOW  essential  a  prop  Martin  Embree's  influence 
had  been  to  the  threatened  fortunes  of  The  Guard 
ian,  its  editor  was  now  to  learn.  Where,  hitherto,  the 
paper  had  offended,  " Smiling  Mart"  had  palliated,  ex 
plained,  excused,  defended,  spreading  the  soothing  oil  of 
his  diplomacy  with  expert  healing.  Now  the  bland  oil  was 
supplanted  by  salt  to  rub  into  the  wounds.  At  this,  too, 
the  Governor  plied  a  master-hand.  The  " firebrand"  in 
terview,  given  to  the  papers  of  the  State,  in  which  he  sol 
emnly  and  all  but  officially  anathematized  The  Guardian 
as  an  incendiary  and  anarchical  agency,  rallied  the  forces 
of  peace-at-any-price  and  helped  to  organize  them  for  the 
ruin  of  The  Guardian.  This  was  in  the  interval  between 
the  establishment  of  the  State  Council  of  Defense  and  the 
declaration  of  war,  a  period  when  Centralia  still  blundered 
about  in  a  fog  of  delusion,  blindly  discrediting  the  in 
evitable. 

Vainly  a  few  dailies  strove  to  force  the  truth  upon 
them;  The  Bellair  Journal,  The  Guardian,  a  handful  of 
lesser  papers.  It  was  to  be  read  between  the  lines  of  the 
German-language  press,  exhorting  their  people  to  be 
firm  of  spirit  and  stand  together  whatever  might  betide, 
warning  them  that  British  agencies  were  in  control  of  the 
Administration,  openly  flouting  and  vilifying  the  Gov 
ernment  of  the  Nation  at  a  time  when  politicians  of  all 
parties  but  the  Kaiser's  had  forgotten  every  consideration 
but  loyalty,  extolling  and  exalting  Germany,  snarling  at 
the  military  "pretensions  "  of  the  United  States,  appealing 


COMMON  CAUSE  351 

to  racial  divisions  in  a  last-hour  attempt  to  devitalize  the 
war-spirit.  But  the  Centralians,  breathing  the  murky  air 
of  their  pacifists'  paradise,  were  in  no  mood  to  read  be 
tween  the  lines.  For  them  the  assurances  of  the  great 
bulk  of  their  newspapers  sufficed.  These,  either  them 
selves  deceived,  or  fearful  of  reprisals,  or  simply  accept 
ing  that  old-time  tenet  of  the  pander  "Give  the  public 
what  it  wants,"  would  not  admit  the  possibility  of  this 
Nation's  being  drawn  into  the  struggle.  War?  Those  who 
prophesied  it  were  fools  playing  with  fire.  They  were  in 
Wall  Street's  pay.  They  were  traitors  to  a  peace-loving 
people.  And  Centralia,  for  the  most  part,  read  and  be 
lieved. 

All  that  man  could  do  to  foster  this  creed,  Martin  Em- 
bree  did.  To  do  him  justice,  he  did  not  admit  to  himself 
the  imminence  of  the  conflict.  His  was  the  type  of  mind, 
characteristic  of  the  self-centered,  which  translates  hopes 
into  expectations  and  expectations  into  belief.  On  the 
whole  he  thought  the  time  and  opportunity  favorable  for 
a  brief,  preparatory  campaign  for  the  senatorship.  On 
anti-war,  pro-German  sentiment  combined,  he  felt  sure 
that  he  could  ride  to  victory,  when  the  time  came,  atop 
the  crest  of  an  irresistible  wave.  He  made  a  short  speak 
ing  tour  in  the  Northern  Tier,  where  The  Guardian  as  his 
representative  organ  had  so  prospered.  Wherever  he  now 
appeared,  The  Guardian's  circulation  withered.  He  had 
but  to  quote  from  the  "  Under  Which  Flag?"  editorial, 
with  such  intonations  as  he  well  knew  how  to  impart, 
and  the  Teutonic  fury  of  his  audiences  did  the  rest. 

At  home  in  Fenchester  the  paper  showed  a  slight  but 
steady  loss  of  circulation.  Verrall  went  about  the  office 
looking,  as  Andrew  Galpin  indignantly  observed,  "like 


352  COMMON  CAUSE 

a  sob-sister  on  reduced  salary."  The  circulation  and 
advertising  manager  was  frankly  of  opinion  that  The 
Guardian  was  done  for.  If  the  hyphen  outbreak  were  not, 
in  itself,  enough,  the  split  with  Governor  Embree  was  the 
final  madness.  Personally  he  maintained  unbroken  rela 
tions  with  the  Governor.  He  did  not  despair,  he  told  Gal- 
pin,  of  bringing  about  a  practicable  adjustment  if  not  an 
actual  reconciliation  between  The  Guardian  and  Embree. 
How  was  the  Governor  to  mature  his  senatorial  plans 
without  at  least  one  important  newspaper  through  which 
to  express  himself?  he  argued.  The  Bellair  Journal,  never 
reliably  loyal,  was  now  violently  opposing  him.  The  Rec 
ord  was  out  of  the  question  on  the  political  side.  He 
needed  The  Guardian  and  The  Guardian  needed  him. 
The  thing  ought  to  be  fixed  up  —  he  put  it  squarely  to 
Galpin.  Could  n't  it  be  fixed  up? 

Galpin,  regarding  him  with  a  sinister  eye,  opined  that 
it  might,  what  time  fried  snowballs  were  a  popular  break 
fast  food  in  Sheol. 

Since  the  publication  of  the  fateful  editorial  the 
Deutscher  Club  had  been,  officially,  mute.  Even  though, 
in  a  later  effort  from  Editor  Robson's  pen,  it  had  been  in 
vited  to  gladden  the  eyes  of  Fenchester  by  displaying  the 
Stars  and  Stripes  above  its  building,  it  made  no  retort. 
Neither  did  it  display  the  Stars  and  Stripes.  It  was 
quietly  busy  with  other  considerations. 

"  The  Botches  are  at  it,"  announced  Galpin  one  morning. 

" What's  their  line  of  action?" 

" Boycott.  The  Deutscher  Club  is  running  it." 

"Old  stuff,  Andy." 

"Not  this.  They've  got  a  committee  and  an  organ 
ized  campaign." 


COMMON  CAUSE  353 

"Print  their  names,"  suggested  the  editor  with  a 
cheery  but  baleful  smile. 

"In  a  minute  if  I  could  get  'em!  They  are  n't  so  brash 
as  all  that.  It's  all  very  pussy-footed.  Nothing  to  put 
your  hands  on  legally." 

"How  are  they  working  it?" 

"House-to-house  canvass,  I'm  told.  That  would  fit  in 
with  our  circulation  returns.  We're  shy  about  eight 
hundred  right  here  in  town,  Boss.  They're  claiming  fif 
teen  hundred." 

"Claims  won't  hurt  us." 

"Don't  you  believe  they  won't!  They're  going  to  our 
advertisers.  The  Record  is  in  on  it." 

"Naturally.  They  could  use  some  added  advertising 
space  if  they  could  get  it  away  from  us." 

"They're  getting  it;  a  little.  They'll  get  more  if  we 
hold  up  to  our  present  rates.  The  Retailers'  Association 
had  that  up  in  meeting  again,  and  we'll  probably  hear 
one  of  their  mild  suggestions  about  a  reduction  soon." 

"They  don't  get  it!"  said  Jeremy  angrily. 

"No.  If  we  let  down  now,  we '11  be  on  the  slide.  Be 
sides,  we  sure  need  the  money.  Those  libel  suits  of  Dana 
&  Dana  are  going  to  cost  something.  They're  juggling 
'em  that  way." 

"Any  other  cheer-up  news  to-day,  Andy?" 

"No-o.  Nothing  special.  We're  up  against  a  new  pa 
per  contract.  Verrall  's  looking  after  that.  Something 's 
going  on  under  the  surface  in  the  press-room.  Maybe  the 
Deutscher  Club  has  a  committee  at  work  there,  too.  I  'd 
like  to  catch  'em  at  it  —  with  a  press-hammer  handy,"  he 
concluded,  licking  his  lips.  "It  would  n't  hurt  my  feel 
ings  at  all  to  have  to  slaughter  a  few  Botches." 


354  COMMON  CAUSE 

"Well,  you  may  get  your  chance.  Andy,  what  would 
you  do  if  war  were  declared?" 

"Who?  Me?  Get  out  a  special,  with  the  American  flag 
all  over  it,  if  it  was  at  3  A.M." 

"That  is  n't  what  I  mean.  What  would  you  do  per 
sonally?" 

The  general  manager's  face  fell.  "Nothing.  I  couldn't. 
No  good."  He  stretched  his  long  and  powerful  arms  and 
gazed  at  them  sorrowfully.  "Old  lumber,  Boss.  They 
would  n't  take  me."  He  touched  his  injured  eye. 

"No!"  exclaimed  Jeremy.  " That's  tough.  Are  you 
sure?" 

"Tried  it.  No  go." 

"Tried  it?"  returned  Jeremy,  surprised.  "How? 
When?" 

"Went  to  Doc  Summerfield.  He's  been  down  on  the 
border.  Knows  the  game.  He  said  no  go  right  away. 
Not  a  chance." 

"So  you  did  that,"  mused  Jeremy  with  growing  won 
der.  "You  never  peeped  to  me  about  it." 

"Did  n't  want  to  bother  you." 

"I'm  mighty  sorry  for  you,  Andy,"  said  his  chief. 
"But  I'm  mighty  glad  for  The  Guardian.  We  need  you 
here.  And  we're  going  to  need  you  worse." 

"How's  that?"  The  other  looked  up  with  swift  sus 
picion. 

"Andy,  you  could  take  hold  and  run  The  Guardian 
if—" 

"  Not  by  a  dam'  sight ! "  shouted  Andrew  Galpin.  "  You 
can't  quit.  Not  now." 

"But  if  it  comes  to  war  — " 

"  This  is  your  war.    You  Ve  got  your  fighting  cut  out 


COMMON  CAUSE  355 

for  you  right  here.    It 's  a  dandy  scrap  if  there  ever  was 
one." 

"It  isn't  the  same." 

"Ay-ah!  Sure  it  is  n't.  Has  n't  got  the  headline  stuff 
in  it.  'Gallant  Young  Editor  Goes  to  War.'  Hey?  Is 
that  what  you're  after?" 

Jeremy  sat  silent,  disconcerted  by  the  bitterness  and 
anger  in  his  associate's  voice. 

"You  were  going,  if  you  could." 

Again  Andy  winced.  "That's  different.  You  could  run 
the  paper  without  me  — " 

"Not  for  a  week!" 

"You're  saying  that  to  make  me  feel  better  about  it. 
Jem,  you  can't  quit.  This  is  your  job." 

"Until  a  bigger  one  turns  up." 

"There  isn't  any  bigger  one,"  retorted  his  general 
manager  with  profound  conviction. 

In  the  ensuing  days  it  seemed  to  the  owner  of  The 
Guardian  that  there  could  be  no  more  racking  one.  For, 
step  by  step,  as  war  drew  nearer,  the  revenues  of  The 
Guardian  declined.  The  secret  committee  work  of  the 
Deutscher  Club  was  as  effective  as  it  was  quiet.  Uncer 
tainty  in  business  conditions  was  producing  a  logical  let 
up  in  advertising,  and  the  boycott  was  borrowing  impetus 
from  this  tendency.  A  committee  from  the  Retailers' 
Association  had  approached  Jeremy  on  the  subject  of  a 
reduction  of  rates.  He  had  retorted  hotly  upon  them 
that  they  were  making  themselves  the  agents  of  an  at 
tack  upon  The  Guardian  because  of  its  Americanism. 
Matthew  Ellison  had  attempted  to  smooth  matters  over 
with  a  "business  is  business"  plea;  but  Ahrens,  of  the 
Northwestern  Stores,  had  sneered  at  The  Guardian  for 


356  COMMON  CAUSE 

making  capital  out  of  cheap  jingoism,  and  the  session  had 
ended  in  taunts  and  recriminations.  Its  echo  had  fol 
lowed  in  the  loss  of  some  minor  advertisements.  The  de 
partment  stores,  however,  could  not  yet  bring  themselves 
to  abjure  so  valuable  a  medium,  no  matter  how  defiant 
its  attitude.  Business  was  business  to  that  extent. 

Meantime  Jeremy,  amidst  all  his  worries  and  troubles, 
was  conscious  of  a  great  and  unwonted  inner  peace.  He 
was  doing  his  job  as  it  came  to  him  to  be  done.  The  pres 
ent  was  engrossed  in  the  fight,  growing  sterner  and  more 
demanding  day  by  day.  His  future  was  clear  before  him. 
He  knew  what  course  he  must  steer.  If  The  Guardian 
were  driven  upon  the  rocks,  or  rather  if  the  submarines 
got  her  (he  grinned  with  cheerful  determination  over  this 
preferred  metaphor),  at  least  she  would  go  down  fight 
ing,  and  the  flag  that  she  had  flown  would  be  caught  up 
from  the  flood  and  carried  on.  Wavering  and  uncertain 
notes  from  that  quaint  herald-figure,  heading  its  pages, 
were  a  thing  of  the  past.  At  last  it  had  "sounded  forth 
the  trumpet  that  shall  never  call  retreat."  And,  when 
the  crash  came,  he,  Jeremy,  could  find  refuge  in  his  coun 
try's  armed  service.  That  was  an  unfailing  comfort. 

More  potently  sustaining,  even,  than  this  was  the 
thought  that  the  dear  and  distant  and  unforgotten  reader 
of  The  Guardian  overseas  must,  now  and  to  the  end,  be 
lieve  in  it. 


CHAPTER   XII 

UNDER  the  far  shock  of  declared  war,  the  sovereign 
State  of  Centralia,  unready  and  unrealizing,  was 
rent  and  seamed  from  border  to  border  with  seismic 
chasms  across  which  brother  bandied  threats  with 
brother,  and  lifelong  friends  clamored  for  each  other's 
blood.  Politicians  and  newspapers,  who  live  chiefly  (and 
uneasily)  by  grace  of  public  favor,  stepped  warily  among 
racial  pitfalls  set  with  envenomed  stakes.  Having  so  be 
fooled  the  public,  and  in  thus  doing  lulled  themselves  to  a 
false  security,  they  were  now  in  a  parlous  state,  not  dar 
ing  to  affront  a  nation  in  arms,  fearful  of  the  unmeasured 
power  of  their  alien  supporters,  afraid  alike  of  truth,  false 
hood,  and  silence. 

But  it  was  the  dear-bought  privilege  and  luxury  of  The 
Guardian  in  these  great  days  to  speak  that  which  was  in 
its  owner's  soul.  Straight  and  clear  it  spoke,  while  for  the 
first  fortnight  after  the  declaration  the  editor  hurried 
about  the  State  organizing  the  trustworthy  newspapers 
into  a  compact  league  of  patriotism,  meantime  living, 
sleeping,  and  writing  on  trains,  in  automobiles,  in  country 
hotels,  those  editorial  battle-cries  that  variously  rasped, 
enthused,  infuriated,  or  inspired,  but  always  stirred  and 
roused,  the  divided  and  doubting  people  of  Centralia. 

After  the  first  stunned  inaction  and  uncertainty  of  sur 
prise,  there  crept  through  the  German  communities  of 
the  United  States  a  waif  word  of  strange  import. 

"Deutschtum  is  bent,  but  not  broken." 

From  mouth  to  mouth  it  passed.    It  was  spoken  in 


358  COMMON  CAUSE 

German  clubs  and  societies.  It  was  proclaimed  in  lodge- 
rooms.  Presently  it  appeared  in  print.  Bauer's  alien- 
hearted  Herold  und  Zeitung  published  it  once  and  again ; 
first,  cautiously,  tentatively;  the  second  time,  building 
upon  its  own  impunity,  and  the  incredible  tolerance  of 
the  stupid  Yankees,  repeating  it  as  the  text  of  an  edi 
torial  word  of  good  cheer  for  struggling  Germany  —  with 
whom  the  United  States  was  at  war !  The  Reverend  Theo 
Gunst's  religious  weekly  spread  the  rallying  cry;  and 
fervent  theologians  preached  it  in  its  own  tongue  from 
their  pulpits.  Soon  it  had  permeated  the  whole  German 
fabric  of  Centralia,  with  its  message  of  aid  and  comfort 
to  the  enemy:  "Deutschtum  is  bent,  but  not  broken!" 

And  the  Deutschtum  of  Centralia,  unbroken  and 
scarcely  bent,  set  about  fulfilling  its  vengeance  upon  The 
Guardian  and  Jeremy  Robson. 

The  first  attack  was  a  blast  of  letters,  signed  and  anon 
ymous.  Correspondence  enough  was  daily  piled  upon  the 
editorial  desk  of  The  Guardian  to  have  occupied  all  of 
Jeremy's  time  had  he  undertaken  to  answer  it.  Most 
of  it  was  denunciation,  protest,  warning,  threat.  Several 
weak-kneed  politicians,  followers  of  "Smiling Mart"  Em- 
bree's  political  fortunes,  had  written  pressingly  for  ap 
pointments,  evincing  in  every  line  their  perturbation  lest 
The  Guardian's  course  might  compromise  them  in  one 
way  or  another.  One  correspondent  had  contented  him 
self  with  a  spirited  but  unsigned  free-hand  drawing  of  a 
noose  overhanging  a  skull  and  crossbones. 

In  the  middle  of  the  heap  was  a  brief  and  simple  note 
of  commendation  for  The  Guardian's  course,  from  the 
hardest- worked,  most  sorely  pressed  and  anxious  man  in 
America.  It  was  headed:  "The  White  House."  All  but 


COMMON  CAUSE  359 

this  Jeremy  shoveled  into  the  waste-basket ;  then  plunged 
into  his  work  with  renewed  spirit.  The  anonymous 
threats  had  cheered  him  only  less  than  the  President's 
word.  They  showed  that  his  work  was  striking  home. 

Uncertainty  was  what  Jeremy  found  hardest  to  en 
dure  in  those  days.  And  the  local  advertising  situation 
seemed  to  be  about  fifty-one  per  cent  uncertainty,  and 
the  other  forty-nine  probable  loss.  Contracts  both  yearly 
and  half-yearly  were  renewable  on  May  1st.  There  ap 
peared  to  be  an  almost  universal  indisposition  on  the  part 
of  the  local  stores  to  commit  themselves  to  any  definite 
figures  or  estimates  in  advance.  In  the  case  of  the  Ger 
man  advertisers,  or  of  the  few  which  still  maintained  ran 
cor  against  The  Guardian  because  of  its  independence  in 
business  matters,  this  was  quite  explicable.  But  no  such 
reasons  applied  in  the  case  of  the  large  majority  which 
were  holding  off.  Nothing  in  the  way  of  enlightenment 
could  be  elicited  from  Verrall.  He  "did  n't  understand  it 
at  all."  He'd  "done  his  best."  Business  was  "very  un 
certain."  Probably  that  was  it.  They  were  waiting  to  see 
the  effect  of  the  war.  If  any  one  should  be  in  a  position  to 
make  a  guess,  Verrall  was  the  man;  for  he  was  spending 
enough  of  his  time  among  the  stores.  At  least  he  was  cer 
tainly  not  spending  it  at  his  desk. 

Extra  work  was  thus  thrown  upon  the  overworked  Gal- 
pin.  No  dependence  could  be  placed  upon  Jeremy  from 
day  to  day  now.  At  any  hour,  the  demands  of  State-wide 
newspaper  organization  were  likely  to  call  him  away  from 
town,  and  relegate  to  Galpin  all  of  his  duties  other  than 
the  actual  writing  of  editorials.  There  were  mornings 
when  the  general  manager  would  arrive  at  the  office  be 
fore  eight  o'clock  to  find  three  hours'  work  by  his  chief 


360  COMMON  CAUSE 

already  completed  and  on  his  desk  with  a  note:  "Meet 
ings  at  Fairborn  and  Rocola  to-day  and  to-morrow.  Back 
Thursday."  To  be  obliged  to  handle  part  of  VerralFs 
desk  job  also,  in  these  circumstances,  struck  the  patient 
and  dogged  Galpin  as  excessive.  Besides,  there  were  mat 
ters  in  Verrall's  department  which  puzzled  his  tired  mind. 

After  one  of  Jeremy's  flying  trips  into  the  country,  he 
returned  to  find  Andrew  sitting  at  Max  Verrall's  desk. 
Instead  of  responding  to  his  employer's  greeting,  the  gen 
eral  manager  asked  abruptly: 

"Verrall  was  a  sort  of  political  pet  of  'Smiling  Mart's' 
when  we  got  him,  was  n't  he?" 

"Yes.   Embree  recommended  him  to  me." 

"He's  quit." 

"No  great  loss;  he's  been  laying  down  on  his  job 
lately." 

"He's  been  doing  worse  than  that.  He's  been  tying  us 
up  in  a  double  bowknot.  Boss,  did  he  have  authority  to 
make  print-paper  contracts?" 

"Yes;  all  supplies." 

"Then  God  help  The  Guardian!" 

"What's  wrong?" 

"He's  contracted  for  our  next  year's  paper  at  four 
cents  and  a  quarter." 

"Four  and  a  quarter!  That's  half  a  cent  above  the 
market,  isn't  it?" 

"All  of  that." 

"What  concern  did  he  buy  of?" 

"Oak  Lodge  Pulp  Company." 

"Magnus  Laurens's  outfit!  They  never  tried  anything 
of  the  kind  on  us  before.  It  looks  queer,  does  n't  it!" 

"Worse  than  that." 


COMMON  CAUSE  361 

"But,  see  here,  Andy.  They  can't  make  that  stick. 
Half  a  cent  above  market  for  that  grade  of  paper  — " 

"Which  grade?  There's  the  kink.  Verrall  's  tied  us  up 
on  a  special  quality." 

"Good  God!"  said  Jeremy. 

He  sat  down  heavily.  A  clean  blotter  on  the  desk  of 
fered  him  a  field  for  calculations.  For  a  few  moments  he 
busied  himself  with  a  pencil.  When  he  looked  up,  his  face 
was  queer  and  drawn.  Andrew  Galpin  waited. 

"  It'll  be  a  pull,  Andy,"  said  Jeremy.  "  It'll  be  a  hell  of 
a  pull !  It  '11  suck  the  yolk  right  out  of  my  surplus.  But 
we  can  pull  through  yet  if  — " 

"If  what?"  demanded  the  general  manager,  for  his 
chief  had  stopped. 

"  If  we  can  hold  the  big  local  advertisers." 

Galpin  looked  down  on  his  employer  with  sorrowful 
eyes.  He  cleared  his  throat,  scratched  his  head,  spat  upon 
the  floor,  and  was  apologetic  about  it;  hummed,  hawed, 
and  glowered.  Jeremy  regarded  these  maneuvers  with 
surprise. 

"Baby  got  a  pin  stickin'  into  urns?"  he  inquired  solic 
itously. 

"Oh,  hell,  Boss!"  broke  out  the  other.  "I  hate  to  tell 
you.  They're  on  our  trail  now.  The  Botches'  game  is 
working.  Ellison,  of  Ellison  Brothers,  is  in  your  office 
waiting  to  see  you." 

Jeremy  left  for  his  own  den  and  the  interview. 

Visibly  ill  at  ease,  the  head  of  Fenchester's  oldest  de 
partment  store  rose  to  greet  Jeremy,  resumed  his  seat 
and  proceeded  volubly  to  say  a  great  deal  of  nothing  in 
particular,  about  the  uncertainty  of  the  business  outlook 
and  the  necessity,  apparent  to  every  thoughtful  merchant, 


362  COMMON  CAUSE 

of  retrenchment.  Adjured  to  get  down  to  details,  he 
painfully  brought  himself  to  the  point  of  announcing 
that  Ellison  Brothers  felt  it  best  to  drop  out  of  The 
Guardian's  columns. 

"Just  temporary,  Mr.  Robson,  you  understand,"  he 
said  in  a  tone  which  assured  his  auditor  that  it  was  noth 
ing  of  the  sort.  "  We  hope  to  resume  soon." 

"But,  Mr.  Ellison,"  said  Jeremy  in  dismay,  "there 
must  be  some  reason  for  this.  Is  it  our  editorial  course 
that  you  object  to?" 

The  visitor  began  to  babble  unhappily. 

"No,  no,  Mr.  Robson !  You  must  n't  think  that.  I  —  I 
quite  approve  of  your  editorial  course.  Quite!  Person 
ally,  I  mean  to  say.  ...  As  a  merchant  —  Well,  of 
course,  you  have  been  a  little  hard  on  our  German  fellow- 
citizens.  Have  n't  you,  now?  You  must  admit  that, 
yourself.  .  .  .  Oh,  it's  all  right,  of  course!  Very  praise 
worthy,  and  all  that.  Loyalty;  yes,  indeed;  loyalty  above 
everything.  .  .  .  But  for  a  business  man  —  We  can't 
afford—" 

"Wait  a  minute,  Mr.  Ellison.  How  many  of  your  Ger 
man  customers  have  given  notice  to  quit  you  unless  you 
quit  The  Guardian?" 

"Oh,  none,  Mr.  Robson,"  disclaimed  the  tremulous 
Ellison.  "None  —  not  in  those  terms." 

"I  understand,  Mr.  Ellison.  And  I'm  rather  sorry  for 
you.  Who  are  the  boy  cotters?" 

"Oh,  really,  Mr.  Robson,  I  could  n't—" 

"No.  Of  course,  you  could  n't.  By  the  way,  you're  an 
American,  are  you,  Mr.  Ellison?" 

The  merchant  drew  himself  up.  "My  folks  have  been 
in  this  country  for  seven  generations.  Why  do  you  ask?" 


COMMON  CAUSE  363 

"  Just  to  be  disagreeable,"  replied  the  other  softly,  and 
left  Ellison  to  make  what  he  could  out  of  it. 

Bad  though  this  was,  the  owner  of  The  Guardian  com 
forted  himself  with  one  assurance.  No  store  in  Fenchester 
could  do  business  by  advertising  in  The  Record  alone, 
against  other  stores  which  advertised  in  both  papers. 
Therefore,  Ellison  Brothers  would  soon  discover,  in  the 
harsh  light  of  decreasing  trade,  that  they  could  not  af 
ford  to  ignore  The  Guardian.  Unless,  indeed,  the  other 
stores  also  —  Before  the  thought  was  fairly  concluded, 
Jeremy  had  seized  his  hat  and  set  out  to  obtain  instant 
confirmation  or  refutation  of  his  fears.  His  natural 
source  of  enlightenment  was  the  loyal  Betts,  of  Kelter 
&  Betts,  but  Betts  was  out  of  town.  The  next  store  was 
The  Great  Northwestern.  There  could  hardly  have  been 
a  worse  choice  from  one  point  of  view,  for  the  Ahrenses 
had  from  the  first  resented  The  Guardian's  independence, 
and,  moreover,  were  members  of  the  Deutscher  Club  in 
good  and  regular  standing.  But  Jeremy  was  in  a  hurry. 
Friend  or  enemy,  it  made  no  great  difference,  if  he  could 
arrive  at  the  facts.  In  the  seclusion  of  his  inner  office, 
Adolph  Ahrens  bade  his  visitor  sit  down,  with  an  antici- 
pative  smile. 

"I  ain't  seen  you,"  he  said  slowly,  "since  that  elegant 
hyphen  editorial,  to  congrach'late  you  on  it." 

This  was  Refined  Sarcasm,  according  to  the  Ahrensian 
standard. 

"The  events  since  have  backed  it  up,"  said  Jeremy 
shortly. 

"Must  be  great,"  surmised  the  other,  "to  be  a  big 
enough  Smart- All ick  to  rough  up  decent  folks'  feelings 
whenever  you  want  to." 


364  COMMON  CAUSE 

"There  was  nothing  in  what  I  wrote  to  offend  any  good 
American." 

"  I  guess  you  ain't  the  only  good  American  in  Fen- 
chester!  I  guess  I  'm  as  good  an  American  as  you  are,  if 
I  have  got  a  German  name.  You  ain't  an  American! 
You're  a  England-lover  and  a  German-hater." 

"Perhaps  you  have  n't  heard  that  we  are  at  war  with 
Germany,  Mr.  Ahrens,"  said  Jeremy  with  rising  color. 
"We've  been  at  war  for  three  weeks." 

"Never  mind  your  funny  jokes  with  me!  I  know  about 
the  war.  Does  that  make  you  right  to  insult  every 
German  —  German-American,  I  mean?  You  think 
you  got  us  merchants  where  you  want  us  with  your 
verfluchter — your  be-dammt  paper.  Well,  you  ain't! 
Not  any  more.  I  got  somethin'  to  tell  you  about  next 
year's  contract." 

"Tell  it." 

"I'll  tell  it,  all  right,"  jeered  the  other.  "I'll  tell  you 
where  you  get  off.  Half  of  last  year's  contract.  Not  a  line 
more." 

"  That's  less  than  The  Guardian's  fair  share." 

"Surprisin',  ain't  it?"  snarled  the  other. 

"Yes,  it  is.  Unless  on  the  theory  that  you  expect  a  de 
crease  in  your  trade." 

Ahrens  flushed. 

"Not  in  our  trade,"  he  asserted;  "in  yours.  The  Guard 
ian  Js  a  losing  proposition." 

"You  know  why  it's  losing  —  temporarily,"  replied  its 
owner,  keeping  his  temper. 

"It's  losing  because  it  steps  on  too  many  folks'  toes. 
From  now  on  we  don't  need  but  half  as  much  Guardian  in 
our  business.  That 'sail." 


COMMON  CAUSE  365 

"I  see.  This  is  our  punishment,  this  half-space  allow 
ance." 

"You  can  call  it  that  if  you  like." 

"Then,  just  to  make  it  even,  I'll  throw  out  the  other 
half." 

"Wha-at?"  gasped  the  thunderstruck  merchant. 

"You  understand  me,  Ahrens.  You're  out  —  every 
line  of  you." 

Ahrens  became  suddenly  timorous.  "Wh-wh-why?" 
he  stammered. 

"Because  I  don't  take  punishment  lying  down.  Not 
from  you,  Ahrens.  You  're  going  to  find  out  whether  you 
can  do  business  without  The  Guardian,  losing  proposition 
or  not!" 

He  left  the  worried  store-keeper  and  continued  his 
rounds.  Nearly  everywhere  he  found  the  same  prospect; 
appropriations  cut  from  a  third  to  a  half,  but  mostly  a 
third.  Something  definite  was  back  of  it.  Of  that  he  felt 
sure.  But  what  it  was  he  could  not  discover. 

Enlightenment  was  waiting  for  him  at  his  office, 
through  the  medium  of  Galpin.  That  usually  self-con 
tained  person  looked  haggard.  "Verrall  has  been  here 
since  you  left,  Boss." 

"What  did  he  want?  His  job  back?" 

"No.  He's  got  another." 

"Good  riddance.  What  is  it?" 

"  Boss,  the  cat 's  out  of  the  bag.  I  don't  know  how  they 
ever  kept  her  in  so  long.  Her  name  is  The  Fair  Dealer; 
morning  paper  with  Amalgamated  Wire  Franchise; 
scheduled  to  start  next  month.  And  she  ain't  a  cat.  She 's 
a  skunk." 

"Who's  back  of  it?" 


366  COMMON  CAUSE 

"Can't  you  tell  from  the  sniveling,  canting,  hypocriti 
cal  name?  'Smiling  Mart '  Embree  —  damn  his  soul." 

"So  that's  it,"  said  Jeremy  slowly.  "That  explains 
Ahrens's  attitude.  Of  course  they  can  get  along  with  less 
space.  And  Ellison's.  Wants  to  try  out  the  new,  and  save 
money  on  the  old.  We  might  have  known !  Embree  has  to 
have  a  paper  here  for  his  senatorial  campaign.  If  he  gets 
us,  on  the  side,  so  much  the  better." 

"But  does  he  get  us?" 

"It  does  n't  look  pretty,  Andy.  I  can't  pretend  I  like 
the  scenery.  There  is  n't  room  for  three  papers  in  Fen- 
chester.  Somebody  's  going  to  get  bumped." 

"Maybe  it'll  be  The  Fair  Dealer." 

"All  the  Germans  and  the  anti-war  crowd  will  get  in 
back  of  it.  I  should  n't  be  surprised  if  Montrose  Clark  and 
his  gang  were  financing  it  —  to  kill  us  off.  If  we  can  pull 
through  this  next  year —  But  there's  that  print-paper 
contract  pinching  us.  Any  details  about  the  new  paper?" 

"Verrall  claims  it'll  start  with  twenty-five  thousand 
circulation  all  over  the  State.  He  was  in  here  this  morn 
ing  to  see  me  about  —  well,  about  something  else;  and  to 
give  us  the  news  of  the  new  paper.  I  told  him  we  'd  print 
it  when  released ;  would  n't  give  him  the  satisfaction  of 
thinking  we  were  afraid  to." 

"  Right !  If  we  've  got  to  die  we  '11  die  game." 

"It  makes  me  sick!"  growled  Galpin.  "Oh,  I  ain't 
kicking,  Boss !  Only  it  '11  be  a  tough  game  if,  after  all  our 
scrapping,  right  and  wrong  —  and  we  have  n't  always 
been  a  hundred  per  cent  right,  you  know  —  we  get  ours 
from  a  bunch  of  half-breeds  and  double-facers,  like  the 
Governor  and  his  crowd,  because  we  would  n't  straddle  a 
hyphen." 


COMMON  CAUSE  367 

There  followed  a  thoughtful  silence  between  the  two. 
Then  the  owner  spoke: 

"Did  Verrall  make  you  an  offer,  Andy?" 

"  Kind  of  hinted  round." 

"  How  much  did  he  hint?  In  dollars?  " 

"Oh,  a  little  raise.  Nothing  much." 

" I  can't  honestly  say"  —  Jeremy  spoke  with  an  effort 
—  "but  what  the  new  paper's  a  better  prospect  than  this, 
as  things  stand.  I  think  you  ought  to  consider  it  care 
fully." 

"That's  your  best  advice,  is  it?" 

"I  guess  it  is,  Andy." 

Galpin  wandered  about  the  room,  arriving  by  a  devious 
and  irresolute  route  at  the  door.  He  opened  it,  shut  it, 
opened  it  again,  stood  swinging  it  with  a  smudged  hand. 
"Boss,"  he  said  insinuatingly. 

"Well?" 

"Speaking  as  man  to  man,  and  not  as  employee  to  em 
ployer  —  " 

"Don't  bleat  like  a  goat,  Andy." 

" —  you  can  take  your  advice  and  go  to  hell  with  it.  I 
stick!" 


CHAPTER  XIII 

ANNOUNCEMENT  of  the  new  paper  was  not  to  be 
formally  made  as  yet.  Its  projectors  had  other 
possible  plans  in  mind.  Already,  however,  its  competition 
bade  fair  to  be  fatal  to  The  Guardian.  Simple  mathe 
matics  proved  to  the  complete  dissatisfaction  of  Jeremy 
and  Andrew  Galpin  that  a  store's  advertising  appropria 
tion  of  twelve  hundred  dollars  yearly,  say,  divided  be- 
tween  two  papers  would  give  to  each  six  hundred  dollars 
revenue ;  whereas  divided  among  three  papers  it  would  af 
ford  only  four  hundred  dollars  apiece.  Therefore,  quite 
apart  from  German  boycott,  The  Guardian  might  expect 
a  loss  of  thirty-three  and  a  third  per  cent  of  the  income 
from  such  advertisers  as  the  department  stores,  which 
would  naturally  use  all  local  mediums. 

But  in  this  case  the  purity  of  mathematics  was  cor 
rupted  by  complicating  human  elements  not  all  of  them 
adverse.  Reports  of  the  Ahrens  interview  had  drifted 
through  the  mercantile  world.  It  became  known,  too, 
that  Ellison  Brothers  had  dropped  out  of  The  Guardian; 
been  "bluffed"  out,  rumor  said,  by  pressure  of  Deutscher 
Club  threats.  The  Germans,  so  the  word  passed,  were 
now  openly  out  to  "get"  The  Guardian.  As  a  gleam 
in  the  gloom  Galpin  was  able  to  report  one  morning  a 
cheering  sign :  ^ 

"We're  beginning  to  get  a  little  reaction  from  the 
Botches'  attack.  Remember  the  Laundry  Association 
who  lifted  their  contracts  in  a  bunch  early  in  the  game?" 

"Because  we  took  Wong  Kee's  ad?  I  remember." 


COMMON  CAUSE  369 

"They  're  back  with  the  American  flag  over  their  copy. 
Lamp  this,  Boss." 

The  note  he  tendered  was  written  in  the  most  approved 
style  of  business-college  condensation,  and  read  as  fol 
lows: 

To  the  PuVr  of  the  Guardian.   D'r  Sir:  A  Chink  may  not  be 
White  but  he  is  a  Long  Sight  better  American  than  any  Kaiser- 
hound.   Inclosed  please  find  contract  renewals. 
Resp'y,  for  the  Com'tee, 

The  Spotless  Laundry. 

J.  CORBY,  Prop'r. 

"At  least  we're  making  a  few  friends,"  Jeremy  com 
mented. 

"The  trouble  is,  they're  not  organized.  Our  enemies 
are.  It's  organization  that  counts." 

Friends  counted,  too,  however,  in  practical  as  well  as 
in  moral  support,  and  they  materialized  in  the  least  ex 
pected  quarters.  The  Emporium,  which  since  the  early 
quarrel  had  withheld  all  but  occasional  special-sale  ad 
vertising,  now  came  in  with  a  full  contract.  "And  I  take 
off  my  hat  to  The  Guardian,"  said  the  obstinate  and 
combative  Peter  Turnbull.  "I've  learned  to  do  that 
when  I  see  the  flag  passing  by,  no  matter  who  carries  it!" 

Barclay  &  Bull  restored  their  full  original  space  and 
added  to  it.  No  comment  accompanied  the  order.  •  But 
Galpin  went  around  to  the  store  to  explain  that  The 
Guardian  understood  and  appreciated.  Then  there  was 
Aaron  Levy,  of  The  Fashion,  who  had  never  forgiven 
The  Guardian's  attitude  toward  his  installment  trade. 
The  dogged,  hard-bitted,  driving  Jew  came  to  The  Guard 
ian  office  and  was  received  by  Andrew  Galpin. 

"Mr.  Galpin,  I  hear  Ellison  Brothers  is  out." 


370  COMMON  CAUSE 

"Ay-ah.  They  are." 

" What  for?" 

"Did  n't  you  hear  that,  too?" 

"I  heard  something." 

"What  you  heard  is  right." 

"Mr.  Galpin,"  said  Levy  slowly.  "I  been  running  a 
two-inch  three- time  card  in  The  Guardian." 

"Yep." 

"  It  ain't  that  I  want  to ;  but  it  brings  trade.  It 's  small ; 
but  it'd  have  been  smaller  if  I  could  afford  to  make  it. 
You  know  why." 

"Sure." 

"  Now  I  hear  there 's  a  new  paper  coming  in.  I  gotta  go 
into  that.  That's  business." 

"Ay-ah." 

"  But  I  'm  going  to  stay  with  you.  That 's  business  too. 
And  I  'm  going  to  double  my  space  and  go  in  daily.  That 
ain't  business;  but  —  but  you  know  why?" 

"I  do  not." 

"Mr.  Galpin,  I'm  a  Jew.  I  was  raised  on  kicks  and 
crusts  in  Mitteldorf.  I  came  here  a  boy  and  got  a  living 
chance.  I  'm  worth  fifty  thousand  dollars  to-day.  I  can't 
fight,  myself ;  but  I  '11  help  any  man  who  fights  the  Ger 
mans,  at  home  or  over  there.  You  have,  maybe,  all  the 
fight  you  can  handle,  and  more.  Yes?  Well,  that's  my 
help.  No;  you  don't  have  to  thank  me.  It  ain't  for  that. 
I  don't  like  you  or  your  paper  any  more  after  the  war  is 
over." 

He  stumped  out,  leaving  in  The  Guardian  office  a  vivid 
contrast  in  practical  patriotism  between  an  Ellison  seven 
generations  in  the  United  States,  and  a  Levy,  German- 
born  and  American-hearted. 


COMMON  CAUSE  371 

Even  among  the  Germans  of  a  certain  type  the  strange 
reactions  of  the  war  dissolved  old  enmities.  Coming  out 
of  the  Post-Office  one  evening,  Jeremy  found  himself 
approaching  Blasius,  the  little  German-born  hatter,  who 
had  withdrawn  his  thrice-a-week  announcement  from 
The  Guardian,  after  the  Lusitania  editorial.  Upon  sight 
ing  the  editor,  Blasius  squared  his  shoulders  to  a  Prus 
sian  stiffness,  set  his  lips,  and  all  but  goose-stepped  up  to 
the  other. 

"I  wish  to  say  a  word  to  you,"  he  announced  precisely. 

"Say  it." 

" Those  Deutscher  Clubbers;  they  are  after  you  — 
not?" 

"They  are.  Are  you?" 

"Mr.  Robson,"  said  the  hatter  gravely,  "while  we  are 
at  peace  I  think  of  my  good  people  in  Germany  and  I 
hope  we  remain  at  peace.  When  we  are  at  war  once,  I 
think  of  myself,  a  citizen  of  this  United  States ;  and  I  am 
at  war  too.  As  you  are,"  he  added.  "And  I  want  my  ad 
vertisement  back  in  your  paper,  double  space." 

"I'll  be  mighty  glad  to  have  it  there,  Mr.  Blasius," 
answered  Jeremy  heartily. 

"I  thank  you.  This  that  I  have  told  you  I  say  to  the 
Deutscher  Club  at  their  meeting.  And  what  do  they  do? 
They  fire  me  out!  That  is,  I  think,  strainch,"  reflected 
the  sturdy  little  hatter. 

To  Jeremy  it  did  not  seem  "strainch."  Men  like  Pro 
fessor  Brender  and  Blasius  would  find  no  fellowship  in 
the  Deutscher  Club  now.  He  knew  too  much,  however, 
of  the  retentive  power  of  Deutschtum  to  believe  that  the 
schism  in  the  club  would  be  important. 

But  for  every  patriot  who  came  to  the  aid  of  the  sorely 


372  COMMON  CAUSE 

beset  Guardian  with  financial  support  there  were  ten 
who  were  swayed  adversely  by  resentment  or  fear.  Mean 
time  expenses  went  merrily  on,  increasing  as  they  went. 
The  Guardian's  surplus  was  already  enlisted  in  the  fight. 
Jeremy's  small  reserve  was  compromised.  Even  Andrew 
Galpin,  against  his  chief's  protest,  had  scraped  up  two 
thousand  dollars  which  he  insisted  on  putting  in,  as  he 
blithely  observed,  "  just  for  the  hell  of  it."  That,  Jeremy 
prophesied  discouragingly,  was  about  all  that  he  might 
expect  to  get  out  of  it ! 

With  true  Teutonic  effrontery,  the  propagandists  of 
Deutschtum  continued  their  attempts  to  use  the  paper 
whose  ruin  they  were  encompassing,  until  the  inutility  of 
this  procedure  was  at  length  borne  in  upon  them  by 
the  adverse  experience  of  Henry  Vogt,  florist  and  heavy 
advertiser,  who  personally  approached  Jeremy  with  a 
long  and  thoughtful  screed  in  the  best  Teutonic-pacifist 
style  of  reasoning.  This,  Mr.  Vogt  argued,  with  the  as 
surance  of  an  old-time  patron,  would  well  beseem  the 
editorial  columns  of  The  Guardian.  The  editor  thought 
otherwise.  As  a  result  of  that  difference  of  opinion  the 
remnants  of  the  Vogt  advertising  disappeared  from  The 
Guardian's  pages  just  one  degree  less  promptly  than  Mr. 
Vogt  himself  disappeared  from  its  precincts.  In  a  rather 
testily  conceived  editorial  entitled  "  Local  Dummkopf- 
heit"  Jeremy  set  forth  the  principles  of  his  paper  regard 
ing  propaganda.  In  response  to  this  he  received  three 
threats  of  extinction,  eleven  of  ruin,  and  two  of  unprint 
able  language,  which  served  to  restore  the  level  of  his 
overtried  temper. 

While  he  was  perusing  this  mail,  his  general  manager 
came  rambling  in,  with  a  queer  light  in  his  eye. 


COMMON  CAUSE  373 

"Want  to  sell,  Boss?" 
"Self  what?" 

"Sell  out.  Sell  the  paper." 

"Tell  me  the  rest  of  the  joke,  Andy,  and  get  out.  I'm 
busy." 

"Joke  nothing!  We  got  a  buyer.   He's  in  my  office." 

" Is  he  violent?" 

"Boss,  it's  A.  M.  Wymett." 

Jeremy  straightened  in  his  chair.  "Wymett!  What's 
he  doing  here?" 

"Wearing  lovely  clothes  and  looking  prosperous.  He 
is  crazy,  Boss.  He  wants  to  get  back  into  the  game." 

Two  minutes  later,  the  ex-proprietor  of  The  Guardian 
was  confirming  this  latter  statement. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "The  crave  is  in  my  blood.  It's  worse 
than  drink.  I  've  quit  drink.  But  not  the  other." 

"You've  been  back  in  it?" 

"Mining  journal  in  California.  I  made  a  little  money 
at  it.  But  there 's  no  life  in  that.  You  're  in  a  back-water. 
I  want  to  get  into  the  main  current  again." 

"What  made  you  suppose  The  Guardian  was  for  sale?" 

Wymett  lifted  the  heavy  brows  above  his  weary,  cyni 
cal  eyes,  as  if  with  an  effort.  "Are  n't  you  going  into 
the  service?" 

"  I  may,"  said  Jeremy  shortly. 

"Oh!  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  thought  you  were  under 
thirty."  The  tone  was  courteous  but  indifferent.  It 
stung. 

"I'm  over.  A  little." 

"In  that  case  you  're  not  obliged  to  go,  of  course.  Then 
you  won't  consider  an  offer  for  The  Guardian? " 

"  I  did  n't  say  that."    Jeremy's  mind  revolved  many 


374  COMMON  CAUSE 

things  swiftly.  The  Guardian's  days  were  probably  num 
bered  anyway.  If  he  could  sell  at  a  decent  price  now,  he 
could  retrieve  part  of  his  own  fortunes  and  make  a  fresh 
start  after  the  war.  Besides,  there  was  Andy  and  his 
hard-scraped  two  thousand  dollars.  No  one  could  criti 
cize  him  for  selling  out  with  a  view  to  making  the  larger 
sacrifice  and  going  into  the  army.  But  in  his  heart  he 
knew  it  was  the  lesser  sacrifice.  He  knew  it  would  be  a 
surrender,  with  a  salve  to  his  conscience;  knew  it  and 
would  not  confess  the  knowledge  to  himself. 

"Ah,  well!"  said  Wymett's  even,  tired  voice.  "I  wish 
I  were  young  enough  to  get  in." 

Jeremy's  head  lifted.  "When  do  you  want  an  an 
swer?" 

"  You  gave  me  one  hour,"  Wymett  reminded  him. 

"So  I  did."  Jeremy  smiled.  "Times  have  changed 
since  then.  Or  you  would  n't  be  back  in  Fenchester,"  he 
added  rather  brutally. 

"Tactful  of  you  to  remind  me,"  returned  the  other, 
unperturbed.  "  People's  memories  are  charitable  —  and 
short.  Suppose  we  say  to-morrow?" 

"Three  days,"  amended  Jeremy.  "That  will  be  Mon 
day.  By  the  way,  whom  do  you  represent?  " 

"Myself." 

"Of  course.  But  who's  behind  you?" 

"Ah !  Is  that  wise? "  drawled  the  other.  "In  the  inter 
ests  of  your  own  unprejudiced  decision?" 

It  was  on  Jeremy's  lips  to  return  a  definite  refusal  then 
and  there.  But,  after  all,  what  harm  in  considering? 

"The  money  will  be  forthcoming,"  Wymett  assured 
him.  "Shall  we  discuss  terms?" 

"Let  that  wait." 


COMMON  CAUSE  375 

The  other  assented,  and  took  his  leave.  By  a  rounda 
bout  course  he  made  his  way  to  The  Record  office,  and 
there  consulted  Farley.  The  result  of  the  conference  was 
that  A.  M.  Wymett  contributed  a  trenchant  and  bitingly 
worded  editorial  to  that  evening's  issue  of  The  Record 
entitled  "Lip  and  Pen  Patriotism."  It  was  conceived  in 
the  old  and  waning  style  of  personal  and  allusive  journal 
ism,  and  contained  pointed  references  to  young  men  of 
means  and  sound  physique  who  preferred  staying  at 
home  and  preaching  the  patriotic  duty  of  others,  to 
shouldering  a  gun  and  doing  their  own  part.  The  shrewd, 
tired  eyes  had  seen  Jeremy  wince  under  the  sting  of  the 
war-query.  Their  owner  judged  that  a  little  impetus 
might  decide  the  matter.  And  Farley,  for  reasons  of  his 
own  and  The  Record's,  was  only  too  glad  to  lend  a  hand 
toward  getting  Jeremy  out  of  the  way.  He  knew,  what 
Jeremy  only  suspected,  that  Wymett  in  nominal  control 
of  The  Guardian  meant  Embree  in  actual  control,  and 
hence  two  papers  instead  of  three  in  Fenchester,  as  The 
Fair  Dealer  would  then  be  dropped. 

Had  the  writer  of  the  editorial  been  present  to  mark 
the  effect  upon  its  unnamed  subject,  he  would  have  been 
gratified.  Jeremy  cursed  fervently.  He  then  summoned 
Andrew  Galpin. 

"Andy,  I'm  going  into  the  army." 

"Ay-ah?" 

"What  do  you  think?" 

"Going  to  sell  the  paper?" 

"Might  as  well  sell  it  as  wreck  it." 

"Ay-ah?" 

"For  God's  sake,  Andy,"  broke  out  his  chief;  "can't 
you  say  anything  but  'Ay-ah'?" 


376  COMMON  CAUSE 

"I've  said  my  say  once." 

"That  was  before  we  were  surely  down  and  out." 

"I  have  n't  changed  my  mind." 

"I'm  sick  of  a  losing  fight." 

"Good  thing  there's  folks  in  the  world  that  aren't. 
The  French,  for  instance." 

Jeremy  cursed  again,  wildly  and  extravagantly. 
"You 're  trying  to  make  me  out  yellow ! " 

"Boss,  your  nerves  are  n't  all  they  ought  to  be.  Why 
don't  you  drop  in  on  your  doc?" 

"  I  'm  going  right  from  here  to  Doc  Summerfield's." 

"Ay-ah?  You  are  feeling  shaky,  eh?" 

"No.  I'm  not.  But  I  want  to  be  sure  that  I'll  get 
through  all  right  on  the  physical  examination." 

"Ay-ah.  I  guess  you'll  do  —  physically."  Andrew 
Galpin  turned  and  left.  His  head  was  hanging.  He 
looked  like  a  man  ashamed.  Jeremy  knew  for  whom  he 
was  ashamed.  Again  he  cursed,  and  this  time,  himself. 
All  the  catchwords  in  the  vocabulary  of  patriotism  could 
not  now  exorcise  that  inner  feeling  of  surrender,  of  deser 
tion. 

A  figure  emerged  from  a  forgotten  corner.  It  was 
Buddy  Higman. 

"I  heard  you,"  said  the  boy  in  a  lifeless  voice.  "Are 
you  goin'  to  quit?" 

The  final  word  flicked  Jeremy  on  the  raw.  "I'm  going 
to  fight." 

"What's  goin'  to  become  of  us?"  said  Buddy  simply. 

Jeremy  stared  at  him  without  consciously  seeing  the 
open,  freckled  face  of  the  boy.  What  he  saw  was  the  let 
ter  of  Marcia  Ames  in  which  she  had  committed  Buddy  to 
his  care. 


COMMON  CAUSE  377 

"Become  of  you,  Buddy?"  he  said. 

"Of  us.  The  paper.  It  won't  be  us  any  more  with  you 
out  of  it." 

"No.  It  won't  be,"  sighed  Jeremy.  " But  I'll  arrange 
to  have  you  kept  on." 

The  boy  shook  his  head.  "Nothin'  dpin'.  She  wanted 
me  to  have  a  job  with  you."  Suddenly  he  brightened  up. 
"Boss,  could  I  have  a  half-day  off  to-morrow?" 

"Take  it  all  if  you  like.  Looking  for  another  place?" 

The  boy  thanked  him  without  replying.  Jeremy  went 
to  Dr.  Summerfield's  office  where  he  was  duly  stripped, 
prodded,  poked,  flexed,  and  stethoscoped  by  that  slim,  dry, 
brief -spoken  physician.  When  it  was  over  the  doctor 
leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  contemplated  his  caller. 

"Want  to  get  into  the  army,  eh?" 

"Yes." 

"What  for?" 

"To  fight,  of  course." 

"Is  n't  there  enough  fight  right  here?" 

"It  isn't  the  same." 

"Certainly  it  isn't.  No  flags.  No  ta-rum-ta-ra.  No 
khaki,  brave  soldier-boy,  hero-stuff.  Eh?" 

"I  notice  you  went,  fast  enough.  And  you're  going 
again,  are  n't  you?" 

"Different  matter.  I  don't  own  a  trouble-making 
newspaper.  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it?  " 

"The  Guardian?  Sell  it." 

"To  whom?" 

"A.  M.  Wymett." 

"He's  a  figurehead.  What's  behind  him?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Nor  want  to,  I  guess." 


378  COMMON  CAUSE 

"  I  don't  care." 

'"I  don't  care/"  mimicked  the  physician.  "You  talk 
like  a  spoiled  kid.  Are  you  going  to  act  like  one?" 

"  I  want  to  get  in  it !  I  want  to  get  in  it ! "  cried  Jeremy. 

"Or  out  of  it?  Which?" 

"Doc,  if  you  were  n't  an  old  friend  — " 

"You 'd  punch  my  nose.  I  know.  You  '11  do  'most  any 
thing  to  prove  to  yourself  that  you  '11  fight  'most  anything. 
Except  the  enemy  that  most  needs  your  kind  of  fighting." 

"I've  been  doing  nothing  but  fight,"  said  Jeremy 
wearily. 

"And  now  you  want  to  quit." 

"  I  Ve  had  about  enough  of  that  word,  quit." 

"Somebody  else  been  using  it  to  you?  Ugly  little  whip 
pet  of  a  word,  ain't  it!  Well,  you  're  not  going  to  profit  by 
it,  at  least  not  with  any  nice,  little,  heroic,  ready-made 
excuse  to  comfort  yourself  with.  That  much  I've  just 
heard  over  the  telephone." 

"Telephone?" 

"This  one."  He  tapped  his  stethoscope.  "Straight 
from  Central.  Were  you  in  athletics  in  college?" 

"Yes.  Golf.  Some  football.   Cross-country  run." 

"That's  it;  the  distance  run.  Been  under  some  nerv 
ous  strain,  lately,  too?" 

"Try  to  run  The  Guardian  for  a  month  and  see!" 

"Well,  the  college  athletics  began  it,  and  overwork  and 
worry  have  brought  it  out.  Those  endurance  tests  will 
get  a  boy's  heart  — " 

"Heart!  Have  I  got  heart-disease?  What  kind?" 

"Never  mind  the  big  names.  Nothing  to  worry  over. 
You  '11  live  a  hundred  years  for  all  of  it.  But  it 's  there  all 
right." 


COMMON  CAUSE  379 

"I  don't  believe  it." 

"Try  another  physician,  then,  my  spoiled  child." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  doc.  Of  course,  I  know  it 's  right  if 
you  say  so.  But  it  —  it 's  —  " 

"Rather  a  soaker,  eh?  Don't  let  it  worry  you.  You're 
sound  enough  to  go  ahead  and  raise  any  amount  of  Hades 
here,  so  far  as  your  heart  goes.  I  won't  say  so  much  for 
your  nerves." 

"It  isn't  that." 

"No.  I  know.  It's  the  being  counted  out."  He  wrote 
a  prescription,  looked  up  from  it  to  study  the  silent  and 
downcast  patient,  then  tore  it  up  and  flung  the  pieces  in 
the  air.  "  I  'm  not  going  to  coddle  you  with  minor  dopes," 
he  declared  vigorously.  "Jem,  I  read  The  Record  edito 
rial  this  evening.  How  much  did  that  have  to  do  with 
your  warlike  ambitions." 

"It  hurt,"  confessed  Jeremy. 

"  It  was  meant  to.  Know  who  wrote  it?  " 

"Farley,  I  suppose." 

"And  you  call  yourself  a  newspaperman!  Farley's 
got  the  malice,  but  not  the  sting." 

" Who  did,  then?" 

"Wymett." 

"Wymett?" 

"  I  'd  spot  his  style  across  the  continent  even  if  I  did  n't 
know  he  was  here.  Don't  you  see  the  game?  " 

"No." 

"Wymett  has  come  on  at  Embree's  call.  Embree  is 
behind  his  bid  for  The  Guardian.  He'd  rather  buy  The 
Guardian  than  start  his  new  paper.  Quicker  and  cheaper. 
Farley 'd  rather  have  him  buy  The  Guardian  than  start 
the  new  paper;  only  one  competitor  in  the  field  instead  of 


380  COMMON  CAUSE 

two.  Wymett  sees  he  has  you  going;  but  he  is  n't  certain. 
He  borrows  The  Record's  columns  to  force  your  hand. 
And  you  want  to  run  away  and  play  soldier!" 

"I've  got  to!  I've  got  to!"  cried  Jeremy,  beating  th« 
arms  of  his  chair  with  violent  hands.  "And  now  you  teH 
me  I  can't." 

"Steady!  I  never  said  you  could  n't  play  soldier." 

" My  heart— " 

"You're  a  border-land  case." 

Jeremy's  face  lighted  with  hope. 

"You  can  get  in  all  right.  I  Ve  passed  cases  like  yours. 
But  let  me  tell  you  what  it  means.  It  means  that  you'll 
never  see  active  service.  It  means  they'll  make  use  of 
your  brains  somewhere,  in  a  perfectly  honorable,  per 
fectly  safe  office  job  where  the  only  gunpowder  you  can 
ever  smell  is  by  getting  to  leeward  of  the  sunset  gun. 
Mind  you;  you'll  get  all  the  credit.  You'll  go  marching 
away  in  uniform  with  Committees  handing  out  flowers 
and  tears  and  embossed  resolutions,  and  everybody  will 
regard  you  as  a  hero,  except  perhaps  me  —  and  yourself. 
You  Ve  got  to  reckon  it  out  with  yourself  whether  you  '11 
put  on  uniform  and  shirk  or  stay  home  and  fight." 

Strangely  enough,  at  this  bald  summons  there  stood 
forth  in  Jeremy's  working  mind  two  incongruous  figures, 
each  summoning  him  to  judgment;  Marcia  of  the  clear, 
instinctive  courage,  and  Andrew  Galpin.  Were  they 
ranged  in  opposition  to  each  other?  Or  were  they  not, 
rather,  united  in  impelling  him  to  the  simple  and  diffi 
cult  course?  More  strangely  still,  it  was  the  thought  of 
Andrew  Galpin  which  predominated  at  the  last;  Galpin 
who,  facing  disaster  and  the  ruin  of  his  dearest  projects 
with  an  alternative  clear  and  easy  and  not  dishonorable, 


COMMON  CAUSE  381 

had  made  his  choice  of  the  hard  path  and  the  forlorn 
hope,  without  so  much  as  a  quiver  of  indecision. 

"I  stick"  he  had  said. 

Jeremy  lifted  his  head.  He  rose  and  held  out  a  hand  as 
steady  as  a  rock  in  farewell,  to  Dr.  Summerfield  who  be 
stowed  a  passing  and  self-gratulatory  thought  upon  the 
stimulant  effect  of  psychologic  suggestion  properly  ad 
ministered.  The  physician  took  the  hand. 

"Well,"  he  said.  "Which?" 

"  I  stick,"  plagiarized  Jeremy. 

Andrew  Galpin's  relief  when  the  decision  was  reported 
to  him  was  almost  pathetic.  "  Boss,  if  you  'd  laid  down  on 
this  I  was  about  through  with  human  nature,"  was  his 
comment.  "And  now,  what's  to  come?" 

Jeremy's  lined  face  puckered  into  a  cherubic  smile. 
"The  last  trench,  and  a  damned  good  fight  in  it,"  he  said 
softly. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MR.  BURTON  HIGMAN  mounted  the  stairs  of 
The  Guardian  office,  dressed  in  his  best  suit  of 
clothes.  A  powerfully  inferential  mind  might  have  de 
rived  from  his  proud  and  important  bearing  that  he  had 
matters  of  moment  on  his  mind ;  might  further  have  de 
duced  that  he  had  been  on  a  railway  journey,  from  the 
presence  of  a  cinder  in  his  ear.  He  wore  the  air  and  ex 
pression,  sanctified,  as  it  were,  all  but  martyr-like,  as  of 
one  who,  if  he  had  not  already  died  for  his  country,  was 
at  least  prepared  to.  For  young  Mr.  Higman  had  been 
performing  that  miracle,  forever  dear  to  dreaming  boy 
hood;  he  had  been  saving  the  world.  Such,  at  all  events, 
was  his  own  glorious  interpretation  of  his  enterprise. 

The  clock,  pointing  an  accusing  digit  at  V,  was  the  only 
sign  of  life  in  the  inner  den.  Buddy  went  to  Mr.  Galpin's 
office.  Empty  also.  So  there  was  none  to  apprise  him 
of  the  Boss's  final  determination.  A  group  of  printers, 
scrubbed  and  clean,  clumped  down  the  stairs,  still  dis 
cussing  the  exciting  rumor  that  somebody  had  bought 
out  Robson ;  for  every  press-room  is  a  clearing-house  of 
gossip,  technical  and  other. 

"Hey,  Buddy,"  one  of  them  hailed.  "Got  a  new  job 
yet?" 

"Good-bye  the  easy  snap,"  added  another.  "The  old 
Guardian's  sold  again." 

"Much  you  know  about  it,"  retorted  Buddy,  stoutly 
and  scornfully. 


COMMON  CAUSE  383 

But  the  statement  struck  a  chill  to  his  ardent  soul. 
Could  it  be  that  he  was  too  late?  Surely  the  deal  could  n't 
have  been  fixed  up  overnight ! 

On  Mr.  Higman's  official  desk  was  a  heap  of  mail 
which,  in  size,  would  have  done  credit  to  a  correspond 
ence  school.  It  was  Mr.  Higman's  present  professional 
duty,  interrupted  by  his  brief  leave  of  absence,  to  sift  out 
the  anonymous  communications,  with  special  reference  to 
those  of  a  spicy  and  murderous  character,  and  deliver 
them  to  his  chief.  To  Jeremy's  journalistic  instinct,  it 
had  occurred  as  a  sprightly  idea  to  make  up  a  special  page 
for  publication  of  these  epistolary  efforts.  It  would  be  in 
teresting  to  his  readers,  and  would  serve  further  to  en 
lighten  them  as  to  the  extent  and  virulence  of  local  Ger 
man  sentiment.  Perhaps,  too,  it  would  check  the  flood. 
So  Mr.  Higman  sorted  and  divided  and  contributed  mar 
ginal  marks,  and  finally  delivered  a  large  packet  upon  the 
editorial  desk  for  the  Boss's  professional  consideration, 
when  he  should  return  that  evening,  which,  his  young 
aide  felt  sure  he  would  do,  even  though  it  was  Saturday. 
Few,  indeed,  were  the  evenings  that  did  not  see  a  light  in 
the  den,  close  up  to  midnight. 

Doctors'  protests  to  the  contrary,  notwithstanding, 
Jeremy  came  back  to  the  office  that  evening,  after  a  hasty 
dinner.  Overwork  might  be  bad  for  that  second-rate  and 
shop-worn  heart  of  his.  Loafing  on  the  job  would  be  a 
thousand  times  worse.  That  was  one  thing  which  his 
temper  positively  refused  to  endure.  As  he  ran  through 
the  pile  of  letters,  terminating  in  such  suggestive  and 
enticing  signatures  as  "  Vengeance,"  "  Outraged  justice," 
" Member  of  the  Firing  Squad,"  "Old  Scores,"  or  (with 
appropriate  and  blood-curdling  commitments)  those  old 


384  COMMON  CAUSE 

familiars,  "X,"  "Y,"  and  "Z,"  he  realized  that  the 
threats  were  getting  on  his  nerves.  He  was  becoming 
bored,  with  an  unendurable,  deadly  boredom,  at  their 
repetition.  Nor  could  he  deny  to  himself  that  they  were 
affecting  his  actions,  though  in  minor  respects.  For  a 
week  he  had  gone  a  block  out  of  his  way  at  night,  not 
to  avoid  but  to  pass  a  certain  unlighted  alley-mouth 
wherein,  so  "Well-Wisher"  and  "Warned-in-Time,"  two 
(or  perhaps  one)  depressing  correspondents  had  informed 
him,  in  feminine  handwriting,  lurked  his  intended  mur 
derers.  Silly  though  it  was  to  pay  any  heed,  he  had  to  do 
it.  He  had  to  prove  to  himself  the  futility  of  any  such  in 
timidation.  In  vain  had  Andrew  Galpin  tried  to  prevail 
upon  him  to  carry  a  revolver.  It  was  the  common-sense, 
reasonable,  unromantic  thing  to  do.  Jeremy  would  n't 
do  it.  He  would  n't  even  have  one  in  his  desk.  But  there 
were  times  in  the  long  solitary  evenings  at  the  office  when 
the  unexplained  creaking  of  floor-boards,  or  that  elfin 
gunnery  carried  on  by  invisible  sharpshooters  in  the 
woodwork  of  old  buildings  during  nights  of  changing 
temperatures,  produced  sudden  effects  upon  his  hand 
writing  which  the  two-fingered  typist,  Mr.  Burton  Hig- 
man,  subsequently  found  disconcerting. 

On  this  Saturday  evening,  he  had  set  aside  nearly 
enough  epistolary  blood-curdlers  for  his  make-up,  and  was 
deleting  certain  anatomical  references  unsuited  to  fireside 
consumption  from  a  rather  illiterate  but  highly  expressive 
letter,  when  he  became  aware  that  a  draft  from  below 
was  driving  some  papers  along  the  hallway  outside.  A 
high  wind  off  the  lakes  was  making  clamor  through  the 
street,  but  it  had  no  business  inside  The  Guardian  build 
ing,  and  could  n't  have  got  there  unless  some  one  had 


COMMON  CAUSE  385 

opened  the  front  door.  He  listened  for  footsteps  on  the 
stairs.  Nothing.  He  returned  to  his  editing. 

"Getting  your  throte  cut  some  dark  nigt  is  too  Good 
for  you,"  his  correspondent  had  written,  and  suggested, 
in  unpolished  terms,  disagreeable  and  lethal  substitutes 
of  almost  surgical  technicality. 

Jeremy  was  Bowdlerizing  these,  when  he  stopped  and 
put  down  his  pen.  The  floor-boards  in  the  hallway  were 
creaking  intermittently  but  progressively.  Through  the 
noise  of  the  wind  he  thought  that  he  could  catch  frag 
ments  of  a  whispered  colloquy.  Then,  quite  plainly,  there 
was  a  retreating  tread,  which,  however,  left  something. 
What?  An  infernal  machine?  Infernal  machines  do  not 
linger,  striving  and  forcing  themselves  to  the  determining 
action ;  theirs  is  a  simple  and  direct  method.  And  Jeremy 
could  feel,  through  the  noisy  darkness,  the  struggle  of  a 
will,  agonizingly  fighting  for  expression,  through  dread. 
Himself,  he  was  not  conscious  of  fear.  But  every  nerve 
was  tense.  He  sat  looking  at  the  door. 

For  what  seemed  an  interminable  time  nothing  hap 
pened.  But  the  Something  outside  drew  slowly,  painfully 
nearer.  The  knob  of  his  door  moved,  a  thing  suddenly 
inspired  to  life.  Jeremy  gathered  himself.  It  turned.  The 
door  was  drawn  open  swiftly.  A  blur  came  upon  Jere 
my's  vision.  His  heart  bumped  once  in  a  thick,  dull  way, 
then  swelled  intolerably.  He  half  rose,  sat  down  again 
heavily.  His  eyes  cleared  and  the  clogged  blood  in  his 
temples  flowed  again. 

She  stood  framed  against  the  stirring,  whispering  dark 
ness  beyond.  Her  breath  came  quick  and  light.  She  was 
white  to  the  lips,  and  more  lovely  even  than  the  dreams 
of  her,  cherished  through  all  those  aching  years. 


386  COMMON  CAUSE 

"  Jem,".she  said. 

"Marcia!" 

She  made  one  eager  step  forward.  A  vagrant  gust, 
ranging  the  darkness,  caught  the  door  and  drove  it  sav 
agely  to,  behind  her.  She  threw  a  startled  glance  back. 
It  was  as  if  the  impalpable  fates  had  cut  off  the  last 
chance  of  withdrawal. 

"  I  have  come  back  to  you."  The  sweet  precision  of  her 
speech  was  the  unforgotten  same,  blessedly  unchanged  in 
any  intonation.  But  wonder  held  Jeremy  speechless.  He 
stood,  his  hands  knuckling  the  desk,  and  devoured  her 
with  his  eyes. 

"Will  you  not  speak  to  me?"  she  said,  with  a  quick 
sorrowful  little  intake  of  the  breath.  "You  frighten  me. 
You  look  so  strange.  Have  you  been  ill?" 

At  that  he  came  forward  and  took  her  hand,  and  drew 
out  a  chair  for  her.  "Not  ill,"  he  heard  himself  say  in  a 
surprisingly  commonplace  voice.  "Sit  down." 

She  shook  her  head  gently.  "I  can  look  at  you  better, 
standing." 

Her  candid  eyes  swept  over  him.  She  saw  a  face  thinner 
and  more  drawn  than  she  had  remembered  it;  bitten  into 
by  stern  lines  about  the  mouth;  the  eyes  tired  but  more 
thoughtful,  and  just  over  the  temple  nearest  her  a  fleck  of 
gray  in  the  dark  sweep  of  his  hair.  Involuntarily  she  put 
forth  a  swift  hand  and  touched  it. 

"Oh,  Jem!"  she  whispered  with  quivering  lips. 

He  seemed  to  brace  himself  against  her  light  touch. 
"That?"  he  said.  "Oh,  that  is  n't  anything." 

"How  came  it  there?" 

"Honest  toil,  I  hope,"  he  returned  cheerfully. 

Her  inventory  was  completed  with  a  smile.    "You 


COMMON  CAUSE  387 

are  quite  as  carefully  turned  out  as  ever,"  she  com 
mented. 

"  Habit." 

"Oh,  no!  Not  habit  alone.  Character.  And  you  stand 
as  straight  and  square  as  you  used." 

A  curious  expression  came  into  the  weary  eyes. 
"Straighter,"  he  said.  "That's  your  doing,  Marcia." 

" How  mine?" 

"It's  rather  complicated  and  long.  I  don't  know  that 
you'd  understand." 

"Make  me  understand." 

"Give  me  time.  This  has  been  —  well,  startling.  I 
think  I  'm  a  little  dazzled  and  —  and  dizzy." 

And,  indeed,  Marcia  Ames,  as  she  stood  there  beneath 
the  hard,  revealing  light  of  the  overhead  arc,  was  a  vision 
to  dazzle  any  man,  and,  taken  on  an  empty  heart,  to  make 
him  dizzy.  The  years  had  fulfilled  her;  had  added  splen 
dor  to  her  compelling  beauty  without  withdrawing  that 
almost  fantastically  delicate  and  elusive  challenge  of 
youth.  She  seated  herself,  and  Jem  took  his  accustomed 
position  behind  the  editorial  table. 

"That  is  well,"  she  said  lightly.  "Is  that  how  you  re 
ceive  callers  on  business?" 

"Yes." 

"Very  well.  I  have  come  on  business." 

"Where  did  you  come  from?  I  can't  quite  believe  it's 
really  you  —  here!" 

"From  Chicago.   Buddy  brought  me." 

"  Buddy  Higman?" 

"  He  came  after  me.  He  told  me  that  you  were  in  great 
trouble." 

"He  told  you  that  I  was  going  to  desert  the  ship." 


388  COMMON  CAUSE 

"Oh,  no!  Buddy  is  your  loyal  subject.  The  Boss  can 
do  no  wrong." 

"The  Boss  has  reached  the  point  where  he  is  n't  sure 
what's  wrong  and  what's  right." 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  that."  There  was  an  implication 
of  pride  and  of  proprietorship  in  the  words  which  shook 
Jem's  hard  hold  upon  himself. 

"Were  you  coming  here,  anyway?" 

"Later." 

"Then  I  should  have  seen  you."  He  seemed  to  be 
puzzling  out  some  inner  problem. 

"I  had  thought  you  would  have  been  in  the  army." 

"So  I  should,  if  I  had  n't  been  told  that  I'm  a  useless 
bit  of  wreckage." 

"Please!  I  know  all  about  it.  I  have  seen  Mr.  Galpin. 
Your  war  is  here.  If  you  had  decided  otherwise  than  you 
did  I  should  —  I  should  — " 

"You're  trying  to  make  it  easy  for  me,"  he  accused. 

"I  should  have  come  back  to  find  another  Jem  from 
the  one  I  have  learned  to  believe  in." 

"To  believe  in,  Marcia?  How's  that?  " 

"'Seein'  's  belie vin ','"  she  laughed.  "I  once  heard 
Buddy's  aunt  give  out  that  word  of  wisdom.  I  have  been 
seeing  The  Guardian  and  reading  it,  and  reading  you  in  it, 
ever  since  the  war." 

"More  than  me.  Galpin  and  Cassius  Kimball;  yes,  and 
old  Eli  Wade,  and  others  that  have  helped  keep  me 
straight.  We  have  n't  always  gone  straight,  Marcia. 
There  have  been  issues  of  The  Guardian  that  I  'd  hate  to 
have  you  see." 

"But  I  have  seen  them.  All." 

"And  you  did  n't  lose  faith?" 


COMMON  CAUSE  389 

"I  never  lost  hope  that  —  that  you  would  be  what  I 
wanted  you  to  be.  Jem,  Mr.  Galpin  says  that  the  paper  is 
losing." 

"It  is." 

"Can  you  go  on?" 

"For  a  while?" 

"Could  you  go  on  if  you  had  more  money?" 

"Fora  while  longer.  There 'd  be  a  chance  of  our  pull 
ing  through.  But  only  a  chance." 

"Will  you  take  mine?" 

"Great  God!  No!" 

"Why  not?" 

"I  tell  you,  it's  almost  sure  loss.  There's  a  new  paper 
coming  into  the  field  — " 

"You  said  just  now  that  it  was  my  doing  that  you  — 
you  stood  straighter  than  you  used.  Did  you  mean  The 
Guardian?" 

"The  Guardian.  Myself.  It 's  the  same  thing." 

"Then  does  not  that  give  me  a  right  in  the  paper?  A 
moral  right?"  she  argued  with  bewitching  earnestness. 

"Granted.  Put  in  anything  you  like  but  your  money." 

"Jem!  Please!  "she  pleaded.  "Will  you  not  take  it 
if—" 

"Not  with  any  if." 

She  rose  and  came  to  him  around  the  corner  of  the 
table,  and  set  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  Her  eyes  were 
steady,  clear,  courageous  upon  his,  but  her  whole  face 
flushed  into  a  glorious  shame  and  her  voice  shook  and 
fluttered  as  she  spoke  again.  "Not  if  —  not  even  if  —  I 
go  with  it?" 

"No,"  said  Jem.  But  his  face  was  like  that  of  one  in  a 
mortal  struggle. 


390  COMMON  CAUSE 

For  a  moment  there  was  a  flash  of  fear  in  her  regard. 
"Jem!  There  is  not  —  some  one  else?" 

"How  could  there  be?"  he  said  simply. 

"How  could  there  be!  "she  repeated  with  a  caressing 
contentment.  "  I  knew  there  could  not  be." 

"There  never  could.  How  did  you  know?  " 

She  stepped  back  from  him.  "By  what  I  felt,  myself." 
She  laughed  a  little  tremulously.  "I  should  have  read  it 
in  The  Guardian.  Between  the  lines." 

"But—-"  he  began.  "There  was  — Miss  Pritchard 
told  me—  " 

"Yes,"  she  assented  gravely.  "There  was.  It  was  a 
formal  betrothal.  But  when  I  saw  him  again  I  knew  that 
I  could  not.  It  was  no  fault  of  his  —  nor  mine.  I  remem 
bered,"  she  said  very  low,  "that  night.  That  last  night. 
On  the  bridge.  Four  years  ago.  My  dear!  Was  it  four 
years  ago?" 

Her  eyes,  her  voice  yearned  to  him,  wooed  him.  Jem's 
knuckles  were  white  with  the  force  of  the  grip  wherewith 
he  held  to  the  table. 

"Marcia!"  he  began. 

"It  made  no  difference,"  she  went  on  dreamily, 
"whether  I  was  ever  to  see  you  again  or  not.  I  did  not  be 
lieve  then  that  I  ever  should.  But  whether  or  not,  there 
could  be  no  one  else.  Some  women  are  like  that,  Jem. 
'Once  is  forever,  and  once  alone ! '  I  think  a  woman  wrote 
that.  .  .  .  And  you  have  not  even  said  I  was  welcome." 

"  I  dare  n't ! "  he  burst  out.  "  I  dare  n't  tell  you  what  I 
feel  —  what  I  'm  struggling  against.  Marcia,  I  'm  down 
and  out." 

"Does  that  matter?"  she  broke  in  proudly. 

"It  matters  everything.    I  can't  take  your  money.   I 


COMMON  CAUSE  391 

can't  ask  you  to  marry  me.  There's  nothing  ahead  of 
me." 

"Mr.  Galpin  says  that  The  Guardian  is  the  one  big, 
fighting  energy  — " 

"Andy  Galpin  is  a  loyal  fool.  He 's  the  best  and  finest 
and  stanchest  friend  ever  a  blunderer  like  me  had.  Poor 
devil!  He's  put  every  cent  he's  got  into  the  fight  — " 

"And  you  will  not  let  me  put  in  my  share?" 

"Share?  Don't  talk  nonsense,  Marcia.  No." 

"Not  even  a  little  part?" 

"Not  a  cent!" 

"And  you  will  not  even  marry  me?" 

"No,"  groaned  the  sorely  beset  Jem. 

"Very  well.  I  think  it  very  hard."  There  was  a  palpa 
ble,  even  an  exaggerated,  droop  to  the  tender  and  mobile 
lips;  but  in  the  depths  of  Marcia 's  eyes  twin  devils  of 
defiance  and  determination  danced.  "Good-night,  Jem. 
No!  You  shall  not  take  me  downstairs." 

In  the  motor  outside  the  scandalized  Miss  Letitia 
Pritchard,  after  a  wait  of  an  hour  and  five  minutes,  com 
mented  significantly  and  with  a  down-thrust  inflection : 

"Well!" 
*  "Well,  Cousin  Letty,"  said  Marcia  demurely. 

"Are  you  going  to  marry  that  young  man,  Marcia?" 

"How  can  I?  He  has  refused  me." 

"Refused  you!"  gasped  Miss  Pritchard. 

"  Precisely.   I  am  a  blighted  maiden." 

"Snumph!"  sniffed  Miss  Pritchard.  "Don't  you  tell 
me!" 

"Must  you  hear  it  from  him  to  believe  it?" 

"Marcia  Ames!  I've  watched  that  boy  since  you  set 
your  seal  on  him  four  years  ago.  I  Ve  seen  him  grow  into 


392  COMMON  CAUSE 

a  man,  and  fight  his  way  wrong  and  right,  and  take  his 
loss  of  you  like  a  man  and  make  a  religion  of  it,  and  run 
his  life  by  it,  and  if  ever  a  chit  of  a  girl  ought  to  be  proud 
of  something  too  big  and  too  good  for  her  that  she's 
thrown  away  —  Don't  you  tell  me,  Marcia  Ames !  I  —  I 
don't  positively  know  what  to  say  of  such  doings." 

The  little  electric,  equally  scandalized,  suddenly  lost 
its  head,  rushed  upon  an  unoffending  hydrant,  sheered 
off,  made  as  if  to  climb  the  front  steps  of  the  bank,  per 
formed  an  impossible  curve,  chased  two  horrified  and  in 
credulous  citizens  (who  had  never  seen  Miss  Pritchard 
under  the  influence  of  liquor  before,  and  so  reported  to 
their  wives  when  they  got  home)  up  against  a  railing,  and 
finally  resumed  the  road  with  a  sickening  lurch,  all  of 
which  may  have  been  due  to  the  fact  that  the  usually 
self-contained  Miss  Marcia  Ames  had  abruptly  buried  her 
face  in  Miss  Pritchard 's  shoulder,  and  clutched  at  her 
blindly. 

"Say  it  again,"  quavered  Miss  Ames,  when  the  errant 
electric  had  squared  away  for  home.  "Say  it  again, 
Cousin  Letty !  I  could  not  make  him  say  it.  And  oh !  how 
hard  I  tried." 

"Land  sakes!  Then  you  are  going  to  marry  him!"  ex 
claimed  Miss  Pritchard. 

"But  he  does  not  know  it,"  replied  Marcia,  suddenly 
demure. 


CHAPTER  XV 

HAD  any  one  informed  Governor  Martin  Embree 
that  Miss  Marcia  Ames  was  again  embellishing 
Fenchester  society,  he  would  have  dismissed  the  matter 
as  of  no  political  moment.  That  is  to  say,  of  no  impor 
tance  whatsoever.  Politics  was  now  the  exclusive  and 
feverish  preoccupation  of  " Smiling  Mart"  Embree's 
days  and  nights,  "Aut  Senatus  aut  nullus"  the  motive 
guiding  his  every  action.  Miss  Ames  was  not  even  a 
voter,  having  no  residence  in  the  State.  Yet,  by  those 
devious  ways  in  which  women  work  and  quite  as  un 
known  to  herself  as  to  Martin  Embree,  she  was  preparing 
a  pitfall  for  the  aspiring  feet  of  Centralia's  most  bounte 
ous  smiler. 

Strange  organizations  were  now  coming  to  birth  in 
every  part  of  the  State  visited  by  "Smiling  Mart."  They 
were  self-assumed  to  be  exuberantly  patriotic  and  vio 
lently  American,  and  their  slogans  were,  "American 
Blood  for  American  Soil,"  "Our  Army  for  Home  Defense," 
"America  for  America,"  "One  Soldier  Here  Worth  a 
Hundred  in  Europe,"  and  the  plausible  like,  the  under 
lying  purpose  being  to  keep  the  American  forces  at  home 
and  thus  out  of  the  war  until  the  Kaiser  could  successfully 
finish  his  job  in  Europe.  Considering  the  super-quality 
of  Americanism  in  the  claims,  the  proportion  of  Teutonic 
names  among  the  membership  was  striking.  Open  paci 
fists,  covert  pro-Germans,  and  political  straddlers  made 
up  the  strength  of  these  bodies,  while  in  the  background 
warily  lurked  Martin  Embree,  moulding  their  activities 


394  COMMON  CAUSE 

to  his  own  purposes  of  advancement.  Deutschtum,  bent 
but  not  broken,  was  become  his  chief  political  asset. 

Presently  these  bodies  merged  into  a  State-wide  and 
single  entity,  the  Defenders  of  Our  Land  —  "Our  Land" 
ostensibly  meaning  the  United  States,  though  another 
interpretation  might  have  been  present  in  the  minds  of 
some  of  the  participants.  All  was  going  prosperously 
with  the  enterprise;  new  members  were  flocking  to  its 
banner;  the  weak-minded  and  short-sighted  were  re 
sponding  to  its  proselytizing  methods,  when,  one  day,  the 
Fenchester  Guardian,  with  that  unparalleled  and  foul- 
minded  brutality  to  be  expected  from  a  bloodthirsty 
jingo  like  young  Robson  (to  paraphrase  the  impromptu 
but  impassioned  German  of  President  Emil  Bausch  at 
the  Deutscher  Club),  set  the  German  flag  above  the 
platform  of  the  organization,  and  below  it  the  con 
joined  portraits  of  Governor  Embree  and  Kaiser  Wilhelm 
wreathed  in  the  olive.  Thereafter  recruiting  lessened. 

Never  before  had  Governor  Embree  so  felt  the  need  of 
reliable  newspaper  backing.  Upon  the  rejection  of  his 
offer  for  The  Guardian,  A.  M.  Wymett  had  thrown  all  his 
energy  into  organizing  the  new  paper  for  his  backer,  the 
Governor,  and  the  sub-backers,  Bausch,  Wanser,  Fliess, 
the  Deutscher  Club,  and  the  German  Societies  of  Cen- 
tralia.  Ostensibly  it  was  to  be  loyal,  as  the  Defenders 
of  Our  Land  were  loyal.  "An  American  Newspaper  for 
Americans"  was  to  be  its  catch-line,  and  its  main  edi 
torial  precepts  were  to  be  the  already  somewhat  blown- 
upon  "Keep  the  Boys  at  Home"  slogan,  and  "A  Rich 
Man's  War."  Other  than  propaganda,  its  chief  purpose, 
of  course,  was  the  election  of  Governor  Embree  to  the 
vacancy  in  the  Senate.  As  the  Governor,  perforce,  was 


COMMON  CAUSE  395 

drawn  by  his  all-excluding  ambitions  deeper  and  deeper 
into  the  pro-German  campaign,  newspaper  upon  news 
paper  had  fallen  away  from  him,  some,  like  The  Bellair 
Journal,  from  principle,  others  from  fear  of  committing 
themselves  too  far.  A  powerful  daily  with  a  State-wide 
circulation  was  now  absolutely  essential  to  the  success  of 
his  candidacy.  The  Fair  Dealer  was  to  supply  the  want. 

As  to  circulation,  that  was  arranged  in  advance.  Max 
Verrall's  boast  of  twenty-five  thousand,  assured  from  the 
start,  was  no  great  exaggeration.  Embree's  political 
agents  had  worked  hard  and  well.  Throughout  the  State 
the  pro-Germans  and  pacifists  were  prepared  to  accept 
The  Fair  Dealer  as  their  political  mouthpiece  from  the 
day  of  its  appearance.  The  difficulty,  which  now  grilled 
the  souls  of  Embree  and  Wymett,  was  the  delay  inevita 
ble  and  unforeseeable  attending  the  institution  of  a  news 
paper  plant.  Meantime  The  Guardian's  editorial  page 
had  become  at  once  a  beacon-fire  for  the  patriotic  ele 
ments  and  a  searching,  searing  flame  for  the  pan-Ger 
manic  scheme  of  which  Embree  was  the  local  figurehead. 

At  length  the  path  of  the  new  daily  seemed  to  be  clear 
of  reckonable  difficulties.  Wymett  decided  that  it  was 
safe  to  go  ahead.  Spacious  announcements  flared  forth 
on  the  city's  hoardings,  confirming  what  rumor  had  more 
accurately  than  usual  presaged  of  The  Fair  Dealer's  prin 
ciples  and  purposes,  and  setting  July  5th  as  the  date  of 
publication.  Thereupon,  as  at  a  signal,  part  of  the  re 
maining  bottom  proceeded  to  fall  out  of  The  Guardian's 
advertising.  Not  only  did  the  local  situation  develop  a 
more  disastrous  decrease  than  had  been  looked  for,  but 
some  two  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  products,  manufac 
tured  in  other  parts  of  the  State  by  German  or  pacifist 


396  COMMON  CAUSE 

concerns,  decided  that  a  morning  paper  was  better  suited 
to  their  needs  than  an  evening. 

With  his  final  determination  not  to  sell,  Jeremy  had 
shifted  upon  Andrew  Galpin  the  entire  financial  responsi 
bility  for  and  conduct  of  the  paper. 

" Here's  the  extent  of  my  pile,"  he  had  said,  turning 
over  a  statement  to  his  coadjutor.  "You  know  where 
the  paper  stands  and  what  it  owes  better  than  I  do.  Take 
charge.  There 's  a  worry  I  make  you  a  present  of.  I  'm 
out  of  it.  I  prefer  the  editorial  kind  of  nerve-strain,  any 
way.  If  you  come  to  me  with  any  unnecessary  informa 
tion,  Andy,  I  '11  have  Buddy  fire  you  out." 

"Don't  you  want  to  know  anything  about  it?" 

"You  might  tell  me,  from  time  to  time,  how  long  the 
patient  has  to  live.  But  not  too  often,  Andy.  I  don't 
want  to  be  distracted  by  —  er  —  irrelevant  details." 

So,  on  the  day  of  The  Fair  Dealer's  announcement, 
Galpin  approached  his  chief. 

"We've  slipped  a  couple  of  extra  steps  down  the  slide, 
Boss." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"  Ay-ah.  But  we  are  n't  so  blame'  far  from  the  bottom, 
you  know." 

"  Give  us  five  more  months,  and  we  may  get  Mart  Em- 
bree's  hide  to  cover  our  lamented  remains  with." 

"Five  months!  Not  on  the  cards,  Boss.  Call  it 
three." 

Jeremy  sighed.  "Don't  bother  me  with  it  now,"  he 
said  testily.  "I 'm  busy.  Did  n't  I  specially  make  you  a 
present  of  that  worry?" 

Diplomacy  was  not  Andrew  Galpin's  strong  point. 
Most  injudiciously  he  conceived  that  now  was  the  time 


COMMON  CAUSE  397 

to  advance  a  project  which  he  had  held  in  reserve,  await 
ing  such  an  opening. 

"Boss,"  he  said,  "there's  another  buyer  in  the  field 
for  the  paper." 

"Who's  the  crook?" 

"It  isn't  a  crook." 

"Who's  the  fool,  then?" 

"  I  am." 

With  a  deliberation  and  accuracy  worthy  of  a  better 
action,  the  owner  of  The  Guardian  thrust  his  editorial 
pen  in  the  glue-pot. 

"Oh,  you  are,  are  you?  And  how  much  do  you  propose 
to  pay  for  this  valuable  property?" 

"Well  —  er  —  say  fifty  thousand.  And  assume  the 
mortgage." 

" Fine!  You've  got  the  fifty  thousand  ready,  I  suppose? 
In  your  little  leathern  wallet?" 

"  It's  real  money,"  retorted  the  other,  with  a  touch  of 
resentment. 

"Real,  of  course.  But  whose?" 

"I'm  not  instructed  to  state." 

"Are  you  instructed  to  take  me  for  a  boob?  Do  you  ob 
serve  a  blithe  and  vernal  touch  of  green  in  my  eye,  Andy? 
When  did  Miss  Ames  put  you  up  to  this?" 

"Well,  it's  good  money,  ain't  it?"  blurted  the  discom 
fited  general  manager. 

"Too  good.    You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself." 

"D'  you  think  I  'wanted  to  do  it!"  retorted  his  aide  in 
outraged  tones.  "She  made  me.  Did  you  ever  try  not  to 
do  something  that  little  lady  wanted  you  to  do?  It  can't 
be  done,"  asserted  Mr.  Andrew  Galpin  positively. 

"Andy,  as  a  self-excuser  you're — " 


398  COMMON  CAUSE 

"Ay-ah!  I  know.  But  you've  been  running  this  paper 
like  you  thought  she  wanted  it  run  over  four  years'  time 
and  three  thousand  miles  of  ocean,"  accused  the  other 
with  unexpected  vigor.  "Have  you  or  have  n't  you?" 

It  was  now  the  editor-in-chief's  turn  to  be  discon 
certed.  "I'm  busy,"  he  said.  He  reached  for  the  imple 
ment  of  his  trade.  "Who  the  hell  put  that  pen  in  that 
glue-pot!"  he  vociferated.  Then,  relieved  by  his  little 
outburst,  he  added,  "Tell  her  we're  not  for  sale";  and, 
after  Galpin's  retreating  back,  he  fired,  "And  tell  her 
that  as  a  secret  negotiator  you're  about  as  subtle  as  a 
street-piano." 

Rejection  of  her  bid  did  not  appear  to  surprise  Miss 
Ames.  Coming  upon  the  proprietor  of  The  Guardian  on 
the  street,  some  days  later,  by  chance  (or  did  she,  as  Miss 
Pritchard  accused,  cunningly  plan  the  encounter?)  she 
inquired  if  the  price  were  not  high  enough. 

"It's  no  use,  Marcia,"  said  Jem.  "You  can't  get  in. 
I  'm  not  going  to  let  you  commit  financial  suicide." 

Marcia  was  in  teasing  mood  that  day.  "I  should  be 
hardened  to  disappointments  and  withered  hopes,  I  sup 
pose,"  she  sighed  mockingly.  "Jem?" 

"Yes?" 

"Will  you  walk  along  with  me?  Or  do  you  think  it 
compromising  to  be  seen  on  the  streets  with  the  girl  you 
have  rejected?" 

"Marcia,"  groaned  the  tormented  lover.  " If  you  don't 
stop  that  I  '11  —  I  '11  grab  you  up  right  here  and  carry  you 
off." 

"That  would  commit  you  fatally,"  she  reminded  him. 
"By  the  way,  are  you  never  coming  to  see  me  again?" 

"  I  'm  all  tied  up  with  evening  work,  now." 


COMMON  CAUSE  399 

"Of  course,"  she  assented  with  a  gravity  which,  how 
ever,  roused  his  suspicions.  "Are  you  going  to  Madam 
Taylor's  tea?" 

"  I  'm  not  on  Madam  Taylor's  list,  since  I  called  her  a 
tax-dodger." 

"I  cannot  imagine  her  dodging  anything;  not  even  a 
taxi,  let  alone  a  tax.  She  is  so  dignified  and  positive  and 
'sot.'  Will  you  come  if  I  get  you  an  invitation?" 

"What  for?" 

Marcia's  delicate  mouth  drooped  exaggeratedly.  "If  I 
must  be  a  sister  to  you,"  she  murmured,  "that  is  surely 
no  reason  why  we  should  not  meet  occasionally." 

"  Oh,  I  '11  come ! "  said  Jem  wildly.  "  I'd  walk  from  here 
to  New  York  just  to  see  you  in  the  street,  and  you  know 
it." 

"Jem!"  she  said  with  a  change  of  tone.  Her  fingers 
just  touched  his  hand  lightly.  "It  is  a  shame  to  tease 
you.  But  your  Spartan  r61e  is  such  a  temptation ! " 

Madam  Taylor,  though  she  adored  Marcia,  flatly  de 
clined  to  invite  the  editor  of  The  Guardian.  "That  young 
mud-wasp"  she  termed  him,  and  advised  the  girl  to  be 
ware  of  his  specious  claims  to  fairness  and  rectitude. 
There  would  be  plenty  of  other  young  men,  far  better 
worth  meeting,  at  her  tea  than  young  Robson.  It  was 
not  any  other  young  man,  however,  whom  the  lovely 
Miss  Ames  selected  for  her  special  attention  at  the  tea, 
but,  vastly  to  his  surprise  and  not  a  little  to  his  gratifica 
tion,  Mr.  Montrose  Clark.  There  was  nothing  of  the  gal 
lant  about  the  public  utilitarian;  he  was  the  highly  correct 
head  of  a  devoted  family.  But  even  in  such,  the  aesthetic 
sense  remains,  and  Mr.  Clark  was  conscious  of  a  distinct 
interest  arising  from  his  being  selected  for  the  special 


400  COMMON  CAUSE 

ministrations  of  the  most  attractive  young  woman  in 
Fenchester.  When  she  had  duly  hemmed  him  into  the 
corner  of  an  arbor  with  an  impregnable  fortification  of 
Dresden  and  selected  viands,  he  made  the  start  himself. 

"I  surrender,"  he  announced  with  ponderous  playful 
ness.  "  What  do  you  want  of  me?  " 

"How  unkind  of  you,  Mr.  Clark!  I  was  about  to  try 
my  craftiest  wiles  upon  you,"  returned  Miss  Ames  re 
gretfully. 

"Then  it's  a  subscription.  I  withdraw  the  white  flag. 
I'll  fight." 

" Please!  That  is  exactly  what  I  do  not  wish  you  to  do. 
I  wish  you  to  make  peace." 

"Have  I  a  quarrel  with  you?" 

"Not  yet.  With  some  friends  of  mine.  With  The 
Guardian." 

The  public  utilitarian's  expression  changed;  became 
more  impersonal  and  observant.  "Young  Robson,"  he 
remarked.  "He's  been  talking  to  you." 

"No.   It  was  Mr.  Galpin  that  told  me  about  it." 

"You're  his  emissary?" 

"Oh,  no!  You  must  not  suppose  that.  I  come  to  you 
quite  of  my  own  accord." 

"Why  this  extreme  interest  in  The  Guardian,  Miss 
Ames?" 

"Because  I —  There  is  a  reason  for —  Circum 
stances — " 

"Over  which  you  have  no  control,"  suggested  her  vis 
a-vis. 

"Over  which  I  have  no  control,"  she  accepted,  and  her 
hand  went  to  her  throat  —  (Mr.  Montrose  Clark,  seeing 
the  swift  color  pulse  into  her  face,  discarded  Andrew 


COMMON  CAUSE  401 

Galpin  from  consideration  and  came  back  to  Jeremy 
Robson  and  wondered  whether  that  pernicious  journalist 
knew  how  lucky  he  was),  "have  given  me  a  —  an  inter 
est,  a  responsibility  — "  Marcia  Ames  was  experiencing 
unwonted  difficulties  in  explaining  what  was  perhaps  not 
fundamentally  clear  to  herself. 

"I  see,"  answered  the  magnate  mendaciously. 

"If  you  saw  as  I  see,"  she  retorted  earnestly,  "you 
would  not  be  opposing  and  trying  to  ruin  The  Guardian." 

"But  bless  my  soul,  my  dear  young  lady!  That  is  pre 
cisely  what  The  Guardian  has  been  doing  to  me.  You 
have  n't  been  reading  it  these  few  years  past." 

"Oh,  yes.  Everyday.  I  do  not  pretend  to  understand 
that  part  of  it.  But  I  do  know  this;  that  Mr.  Rob —  that 
The  Guardian  is  making  a  fight  single-handed  for  the  Na 
tion  and  the  war,  and  is  being  beaten  because  those  who 
should  stand  by  it  are  not  patriotic  enough  to  forget  old 
scores.  Have  you  stopped  to  think  of  that,  Mr.  Clark?" 

The  magnate  shifted  uncomfortably  in  his  seat.  To 
say  that  he  had  stopped  to  think  of  this  would  be  untrue. 
Rather,  the  thought  had  essayed  to  stop  him  and  force 
itself  on  his  consideration  with  increasing  pertinacity  of 
late,  and  he  had  barely  contrived  to  dodge  it  and  go  on 
about  his  lawful  occasions.  Now  it  challenged  him  in 
the  clear  regard  of  a  very  beautiful  and  very  determined 
young  woman. 

"No.  Yes,"  said  Montrose  Clark,  and  left  that  for  her 
to  take  her  pick  of.  "One  would  n't  think  you  the  kind  to 
take  such  an  interest  in  politics." 

"Is  this  politics  —  exactly?"  she  asked  quietly. 

Upon  Montrose  Clark's  chubby  facial  contours  ap 
peared  a  heightened  color.  "No;  by  thunder!  It  isn't. 


402  COMMON  CAUSE 

Will  you  sit  here,  young  lady,  and  keep  out  of  sight  of 
pursuers  until  I  can  catch  and  fetch  Selden  Dana?" 

Marcia  had  not  long  to  wait.  The  Judge  was  retrieved 
from  a  circle  of  the  elderly,  harmless,  but  influential,  with 
whom  he  had  been  discussing  cures.  The  two  men  sat  and 
drank  more  tea  than  was  good  for  them,  while  Marcia 
made  her  argument  and  plea.  Then  said  Selden  Dana  to 
Montrose  Clark,  smiling: 

"Let 's  buy  out  The  Guardian  and  turn  it  over  to  her  to 
run." 

"We  might  do  worse,"  conceded  the  magnate. 

"  It  is  not  to  be  bought,"  said  Marcia. 

"Have  you  tried?"  the  lawyer  flashed  at  her.  "You 
have,"  he  answered  himself,  marking  the  response  in  her 
face.  "Well,  I  am  dashed!"  He  and  Montrose  Clark  ex 
changed  glances.  "Business  is  business,"  observed  the 
lawyer  with  apparent  irrelevance,  but  in  the  tone  of  one 
who  strives  to  recall  a  wandering  purpose. 

"Quite  so!"  murmured  Montrose  Clark.  "Quite  so!" 
But  there  was  a  lack  of  conviction  in  his  voice. 

"Miss  Ames,"  said  Dana,  "I  pride  myself  on  being  a 
judge  of  character.  Sometimes  I  meet  a  problem  that 
puzzles  me.  Why  has  n't  Jem  Robson  gone  into  uni 
form?" 

"Do  you  think  Mr.  Robson  is  a  slacker?"  she  shot 
back  at  him. 

"Not  if  I  read  him  right.  That's  what  puzzles  me 
about  his  staying  behind." 

"Did  it  not  occur  to  you  that  he  has  a  more  important 
fight  here  than  there?" 

"It  might  occur  to  me,"  admitted  the  lawyer.  "But  I 
don't  know  that  I  'd  care  to  have  it  occur  to  a  son  of  mine." 


COMMON  CAUSE  403 

She  gave  him  her  flashing  smile.  "That  is  clever  of 
you,"  she  said.  "I  like  that!  And  now  I  will  violate  a 
confidence,  but  it  must  go  no  farther.  The  doctor  would 
not  pass  Mr.  Robson  for  active  service.  Mr.  Galpin  told 
me." 

"I  never  take  an  afternoon  off,"  sighed  the  lawyer, 
11  but  some  obtrusive  business  crops  up  and  ruins  the  day's 
sport.  Let's  go  down  to  the  office,  Mr.  Clark,  and  talk 
this  over." 

One  more  bit  of  meddling  with  the  irresponsible  fates 
which  rule  men  and  newspapers  was  committed  by  Miss 
Ames  that  afternoon.  Magnus  Laurens,  just  off  a  train, 
came  in  late  to  the  tea,  and  was  straightway  seized  upon. 
/"Uncle  Magnus!  Where  have  you  been,  all  these 
weeks  and  months?  " 

"Well,  Marcia!"  He  took  both  her  hands  and  looked 
down  into  her  face.  "What  a  sight  you  are!  If  you're 
ever  allowed  to  get  away  from  America  again,  I  '11  lose  all 
faith  in  our  young  manhood.  .  .  .  Where  have  I  been? 
Here  and  there  and  everywhere.  Organizing  the  State 
Council  of  Defense.  Raising  money.  Trips  to  Washing 
ton.  Letting  family  and  business  go  to  the  bow-wows." 

"Are  you  in  touch  with  Fenchester  matters?" 

"Hello!  What's  this?  You 're  talking  like  a  politician. 
After  my  vote?" 

"Do  you  know  that  The  Guardian  has  been  making  the 
fight  almost  alone  here  against  the  anti-war  crowd?" 

Magnus  Laurens  rubbed  his  big,  gray  head  perplex 
edly.  "I  Ve  got  to  look  into  that  situation.  When  Jeremy 
Robson  went  back  on  us  — " 

"Jeremy  Robson  never  went  back  on  you!  At  least, 
not  since  war  was  probable.  And  —  and  your  company  is 


404  COMMON  CAUSE 

choking  The  Guardian  to  death  with  a  contract  dishon 
estly  made  by  Senator  Embree's  man,  Verrall." 

"The  devil!  I  beg  your  pardon,  Marcia.  Where  did 
you  learn  these  interesting  facts  —  if  they  are  facts?'* 

"FromMr.Galpin." 

"Oh!  Hardly  a  disinterested  witness." 

"Uncle  Magnus,  I  wish  you  to  promise  me  just  one 
thing." 

"Not  so  foolish!  What  is  it?" 

"I  wish  you  to  go  to  the  Library  this  evening  —  no 
matter  how  busy  you  are  —  and  go  over  the  files  of  The 
Guardian  since  last  March." 

"I'll  do  that  much,"  he  agreed. 

"Then  you  will  do  more,"  said  Marcia  contentedly. 

That  first  day's  confabulation  between  Marcia  and 
Galpin,  the  scope  of  which  its  object,  Jeremy  Robson, 
little  suspected,  was  bearing  fruit. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

LONG  years  unheard  yet  unforgotten,  the  voice  of 
Edwin  Garson,  President  Montrose  Clark's  hand- 
perfected  private  secretary,  warbled  with  a  mellifluous 
intonation  over  the  telephone  wire  into  the  surprised  ear 
of  The  Guardian's  editor  and  owner.  ;j 

"Hello!  Hello?  Hel-lol  .  .  .  This  Mr.  Robson?  .  .  . 
Office  of  the  Fenchester  Public  Utilities.  Mr.  Montrose 
Clark  wishes  to  see  you." 

An  unfortunate  formula.  It  recalled  the  vivid  past. 
One  sweetly  solemn  thought  in  Jeremy's  mind  was  forth 
with  transmuted  into  one  briefly  pregnant  speech  which 
shocked  the  private  secretary  clean  off  the  wire.  Jeremy 
resumed  his  editorializing.  His  next  interruption,  to  his 
incredulous  astonishment,  took  the  important  form  and 
presence  of  Mr.  Montrose  Clark  himself.  Mahomet  had 
come  to  the  mountain. 

At  Jeremy's  invitation  Mr.  Clark  disposed  his  neat  and 
pursy  form  upon  the  far  edge  of  a  chair  impressively,  yet 
with  obvious  reservations,  as  one  disdaining  to  concede 
anything  to  comfort.  Embarrassment  might  have  been 
conjectured  in  one  less  august.  His  voice  was  as  stiff  as 
his  posture  as  he  began : 

"I  had  my  secretary  telephone  you,  Mr.  Robson." 

"I  got  your  message." 

"And  I  your  reply,  which,  as  transmitted  to  me,  was 
that  I  might  go  to  the  devil ! " 

"  I  think  I  mentioned  the  place,  not  the  proprietor." 


406  COMMON  CAUSE 

"It  does  not  signify.  I  am  here "  —  there  was  no  glim 
mer  of  light  on  the  round  red  countenance  to  suggest  an 
ulterior  meaning  —  "I  am  here  on  a  matter  of  business, 
in  my  capacity  as  acting  president  of  the  Drovers'  Bank 
in  Mr.  Warrington's  absence.  As  such,  I  have  to  inform 
you  that  we  stand  ready  to  make  you  a  loan  on  favorable 
terms  upon  the  security  of  The  Guardian." 

"Wh-wh-why?"  stammered  Jeremy,  taken  wholly 
aback.  "Do  you  consider  the  paper  a  sound  risk  now?" 

"Sufficiently  sound." 

"Up  to  what  amount?" 

"Any  amount  you  need." 

Jeremy  stared  at  him,  unbelieving. 

"  No  security  I  can  furnish  now  is  as  good  as  that  which 
you  rejected  before." 

"That  may  very  well  be  true." 

"Yet  your  offer  is  still  open?" 

"It  is." 

"Ah,  yes!"  said  Jeremy,  thinking  slowly  and  carefully. 
"You're  assuming  that,  with  the  change  in  the  local  po 
litical  situation,  The  Guardian  is  going  to  shift  its  princi 
ples.  Well,  Mr.  Clark,  if  you  expect  that  we  're  going  back 
one  inch  from  the  stand  we've  taken  on  public  utilities, 
and  the  P.-U.  Corporation  in  particular,  you're  badly 
fooled.  We're  just  as  much  against  you  as  if  we  were  still 
for  Governor  Embree.  I  thought  I  had  made  that  clear 
to  Judge  Dana." 

"I  have  proposed  no  bargain,"  stated  the  magnate 
aridly.  "  I  make  an  offer.  No  conditions  are  attached." 

"Then  I  've  got  to  tell  you  frankly  that  we  're  not  doing 
very  well." 

"So  I  am  informed.  What  appears  to  be  the  trouble? 


COMMON  CAUSE  407 

Will  the  new  paper  cut  into  your  circulation  to  an  ex 
tent—" 

"Newspapers  do  not  live  by  circulation  alone,  Mr. 
Clark,  but  chiefly  by  advertising." 

"Certainly;  certainly.  Local  merchants  appear  to  be 
pretty  well  represented  in  your  pages." 

"At  reduced  space  —  or  worse.  Take  the  case  of  Vogt, 
the  florist,  who  has  always  been  good  for  a  hundred  dol 
lars  a  month  with  us.  Perhaps  you  can  point  out  Mr. 
Vogt's  present  space  in  The  Guardian." 

The  visitor  ran  through  the  paper  handed  to  him. 
,    "  I  fail  to  find  Mr.  Vogt's  advertisement." 

"He's  out." 

"Why?" 

"Because  The  Guardian  has  been  'corrupted  by  Brit 
ish  gold.'" 

"Indeed!  Did  he  express  that  theory  to  you  person 
ally?" 

"He  did.  He  also  instructed  me  as  to  running  my  pa 
per,  and  gave  me  the  outlines  of  an  editorial  demanding 
that  none  of  our  soldiers  be  sent  abroad  to  help  in  the  war. 
When  I  said  that  I  was  n't  interested  in  pro-German 
strategy  he  said  something  else,  in  German,  which  un 
fortunately  I  understand  a  little;  and  then  '  Police!'" 

"Police?"  repeated  Mr.  Clark,  with  hopeful  interest. 
"Why  did  he  say  that?" 

"  I  suppose  he  thought  I  was  going  to  throw  him  down 
stairs.  I  was  n't.  I  left  him  carefully  on  the  top  step." 

Signs  of  perturbation  appeared  upon  the  visage  of  the 
little  magnate.  He  rose.  His  projective  eyes  appeared  no 
longer  to  feel  at  home  in  his  face.  They  roved  afar. 

"Police!"  he  murmured,  and  added  "Ah!"  in  a  curious, 


408  COMMON  CAUSE 

relishing  tone.  Suddenly  he  thrust  out  a  pudgy  hand, 
clawed  at  Jeremy's  unready  fingers,  murmured  "  Count 
on  us,  Mr.  Robson,  for  anything  we  can  do!"  —  and 
stalked  out. 

"  Now,  how  do  you  account  for  him?  "  inquired  Jeremy, 
referring  the  matter  to  Galpin,  who  had  come  in  to  an 
nounce  another  withdrawal. 

"Oh,  him!"  Galpin  turned  the  public  utilitarian  over 
in  his  mind,  considering  him  on  all  sides.  "Wants  to  use 
us  to  club  the  Governor,  I  reckon.  Now  that  we've  quit 
*  Smiling  Mart/  plenty  of  our  old  enemies  will  be  willing 
to  play  with  us  on  the  theory  that  there  '11  be  a  change  in 
policy." 

"They'll  have  to  make  a  better  guess  than  that." 

"I  guess  you're  right,  Boss,"  sighed  the  other.  "Even 
if  we  did  borrow,  it'd  only  be  postponing  the  finish. 
Things  won't  get  any  better  for  us  while  the  war  is  on. 
And  when  the  showdown  comes  where  would  The  Guard 
ian  be  if  we  were  in  for  twenty  thousand  more?" 
fc  "  In  the  hands  of  the  Drovers'  Bank." 

"There  or  thereabouts.  Well,  I  can't  just  see  us  being 
editorial  copy-boys  for  President  Puff.  Can  you?" 

"Not  exactly!  Yet,  you  know,  Andy,  he  gave  me  al 
most  the  impression  of  being  really  for  us." 

"Well,  it's  possible,  Boss;  it's  just  possible"  —  the 
other's  shrewd  face  was  puckered  in  conjecture  —  "that 
he  might  consider  this  war  thing  more  important  than  his 
own  little  interests.  A  man  who  thinks  different  from  us 
on  every  other  blooming  subject  under  the  sun  might  be 
every  bit  as  real  an  American  when  it  comes  to  the  pinch. 
Ever  think  of  that,  Boss?" 

"Not  just  that  way." 


COMMON  CAUSE  409 

"Time  enough  to  find  out.  Where  the  lion  jumps,  the 
jackal  follows.  See  if  Old  Slippery  Dana  does  n't  come 
round  in  the  next  few  days." 

Come  round  Judge  Dana  did.  That  candid  honesty  of 
expression  and  demeanor  which  had  aided  him  in  pulling 
off  some  of  his  most  dubious  tricks  was  never  more  mark 
edly  in  evidence  than  when  he  shook  hands  with  Jeremy. 

"Ever  give  any  thought  to  the  libel  suits  against  you  in 
the  office  of  Dana  &  Dana?"  he  began. 

"Some." 

"Bother  you  any?" 

"I'm  not  losing  sleep  over  them." 

"Now,  I'll  admit  candidly,"  said  the  lawyer,  "that  a 
couple  of  'em  are  no  good.  They're  dead.  But  there's 
merit  in  Madam  Taylor's  case.  You  went  too  far  there. 
Your  own  lawyers  will  tell  you  that." 

"They  have,"  said  Jeremy  incautiously,  and  bit  his 

HP. 

"Well,  in  spite  of  that,  I  Ve  come  to  tell  you  that  we've 
advised  our  client  to  withdraw  the  action." 

"Have  you?"  said  the  editor  warily.  "Why?" 

"Call  it  friendship." 

"On  your  part?  For  The  Guardian?" 

"We-ell;  say  it's  because  I  foresee  that  the  paper  is 
going  to  have  plenty  of  troubles  of  its  own  without  our 
adding  to  them." 

"You  haven't  always  been  so  solicitous  as  to  The 
Guardian's  welfare." 

"Meaning  that  you  would  like  to  understand  the  rea 
son  for  my  present  solicitude?" 

"'Timeo  DanaosJ"  quoted  Jem.  "I  fear  the  Danas 
bearing  gifts." 


410  COMMON  CAUSE 

The  lawyer  smiled  his  appreciation. 

"  I  've  given  you  the  best  reason  I  know." 

"Did  Montrose  Clark  send  you  here?" 

"  You  don't  like  Mr.  Clark  much,  do  you?" 

"Not  particularly." 

"Nor  me,  either,  perhaps?" 

"I  blush  to  say  that  I  rather  do." 

"But  you  don't  trust  me." 

"Oh,  come,  Dana!  What  would  you  expect!" 

"Just  for  relaxation  of  the  mind,  my  young  friend, 
what  do  you  think  of  me?" 

"Straight?" 

"Straight." 

"I  think  you're  a  slippery  old  legal  crook,"  returned 
Jeremy  without  hesitation. 

"And  I  think  you're  a  flitter-witted  young  fool  — 
ninety-nine  times  out  of  a  hundred!" 

"And  the  hundredth?" 

"That 's  what  I  'm  looking  at  now.  By  God,  you  're  an 
American,  anyway!  Here,  Jem,"  he  leaned  across  the 
table,  extending  a  bony  and  argumentative  forefinger; 
"if  you  and  I  were  in  the  trenches,  fighting  shoulder  to 
shoulder,  it  would  n't  make  a  pickle's  worth  of  difference 
whether  you  were  a  sapheaded  loon  or  not,  or  whether  I 
was  a  crook  or  a  thief  or  a  murderer,  or  not.  All  we'd 
have  to  ask  of  each  other  would  be  that  we  were  fighting 
in  the  same  cause,  and  with  the  last  drop  of  our  blood, 
and  to  the  finish!  Am  I  right?" 

"I  guess  you're  right." 

"Well,  then!  What's  this  we're  up  against  right  here 
in  Fenchester?  Are  we  fighting?  Or  playing  tiddledy- 
winks?" 


COMMON  CAUSE  411 

"There's  very  little  tiddledywinks  in  it,  so  far  as  The 
Guardian  is  concerned,"  confessed  Jeremy  with  a  wry 
face. 

"So  far  as  any  of  us  are  concerned.  It's  coming  to  the 
place  where  it 's  a  case  of  get  together  and  stick  together 
for  us  Americans.  Seen  Magnus  Laurens  since  the  Gov 
ernor's  little  soiree?" 

"No,"  answered  Jem,  flushing. 

"Laurens  thought  you  were  in  on  Embree's  deal.  Why 
don't  you  put  him  right?" 

"He  can  put  himself  right,"  returned  the  editor  shortly. 

"Hardly  that;  but  he  can  be  put  right.  There  are  a  lot 
of  things  that  ought  to  be  put  right  for  you,  my  boy. 
Things  that  have  been  wrong  for  a  long  time." 

He  leaned  to  Jeremy  again,  his  long  face  alight  with  an 
eager  and  innocent  candor. 

"Jem,  there's  no  use  fighting  your  friends.  The  people 
that  can  help  you,  the  people  that  are  the  real  Americans 
of  your  kind,  you've  always  opposed.  Come  in  with  us 
now.  There's  nothing  that  won't  be  done  for  you  and 
The  Guardian.  I'm  going  to  talk  plain  talk.  Isn't  it 
about  time  you  made  up  your  mind  to  be  good?" 

"How  be  good?  What's  on  the  carpet  now?" 

"Why,  this  fight  against  the  pacifists  and  pro-Ger 
mans." 

"You  don't  have  to  tell  me  to  be  good  for  that.  Some 
thing  else  is  up."  He  eyed  the  lawyer  with  a  bitter  grin. 
"I  might  have  known  you  had  something  up  your  sleeve. 
What  is  it,  the  Blanket  Franchise  Bill  again?" 

"That's  a  perfectly  fair  bill,"  defended  the  visitor. 
"But  for  The  Guardian,  it  would  have  gone  through  be 
fore.  Now — " 


412  COMMON  CAUSE 

"Now  we'll  kill  it  again  if  it  shows  its  crooked  head. 
Tell  Montrose  Clark  that  from  me.  And  tell  him  that  I 
won't  need  any  loan  from  the  Drovers'  Bank  to  do  it." 

"Very  well,"  sighed  the  lawyer.  "No  hard  feelings, 
my  boy.  Business  is  business." 

Reporting  to  his  chief,  Dana  stated : 

"He  won't  dicker." 

"As  I  told  you,"  replied  Montrose  Clark  in  pompous 
self-appreciation  of  his  own  prophecy. 

"Well,  no  harm  in  trying.  .  .  .  We  can  pass  the  Blanket 
Franchise  Bill  after  The  Guardian  is  dead." 

"How  long  can  it  last?" 

"Not  three  months,  according  to  what  I  can  gather." 

The  president  of  the  Fenchester  Public  Utilities  Cor 
poration  began  to  puff  up  and  grow  red  in  the  face  and 
squirm  in  his  seat.  Finally  it  came  out  explosively : 

"Dana,  I  don't  want  to  pass  the  damned  bill  —  at 
that  price." 

"Neither  do  I." 

"You  know,  I  —  I  almost  like  that  young  fool." 

"So  do  I." 

"Well,  what  are  we  going  to  do?" 

"Pull  him  through  whether  he  wants  our  help  or  not. 
We  can  fight  him  for  the  Franchise  Bill  after  the  war." 

"Go  to  it!"  returned  the  president  of  the  Fenchester 
Public  Utilities  Company  with  unwonted  energy  and 
slang. 

As  the  first  fruits  of  that  confabulation  between  two  of 
Jeremy  Robson's  oldest  enemies  The  Guardian  received 
on  the  following  day  a  contract  from  the  P.-U.  for  adver 
tising  space  amounting  to  sixteen  hundred  dollars  a  year. 
Jeremy  reckoned  that  with  grim  satisfaction,  as  giving 


COMMON  CAUSE  413 

the  paper  a  few  days  more  of  life.  On  the  following  morn 
ing  there  came  a  far  more  important  help  in  the  form  of  a 
brief  and  characteristic  note  from  Magnus  Laurens,  the 
pith  of  which  was  in  these  sentences : 

I  hope  you  will  accept  my  sincere  apologies.  Enclosed  find 
contract  with  the  Oak  Lodge  Pulp  Company,  which,  I  have 
reason  to  believe,  was  made  under  a  misapprehension  as  to 
quality  of  paper.  Kindly  make  out  new  contract  at  three  cents 
and  three  quarters  if  acceptable. 

Andy  Galpin's  philosophical  estimate  —  "  Every  bit  as 
real  an  American,  when  it  comes  to  the  pinch" —  re 
verted  to  Jeremy's  mind.  A  sudden  humility  tempered 
his  spirit.  He  felt  that  The  Guardian  was  a  pretty  big 
thing  and  he  a  pretty  small  one.  Well,  in  what  time  re 
mained  he  would  fight  with  a  new  vigor  and  for  a  broader 
ideal.  It  would  not  be  long.  Magnus  Laurens's  generos 
ity  meant  only  a  respite;  perhaps  two  or  three  months  ex 
tra  of  fighting  the  good  fight.  In  the  owner's  heart  was 
no  self-deception  as  to  the  inevitable  outcome.  Mean 
time  the  paper  might  yet  beat  Martin  Embree  and  save 
Centralia  from  the  disgrace  of  sending  the  chosen  prophet 
of  Deutschtum  to  the  United  States  Senate. 

And  just  for  itself,  how  well  worth  fighting  for  and  with 
to  the  finish  was  the  battered,  gallant  old  Guardian! 
Jeremy  thought  of  his  paper  as  a  Captain  might  think  of 
his  ship  staggering,  unconquered  but  hopeless,  through 
her  last  storm  to  her  last  port ;  thought  of  her  with  that 
sort  of  devotion,  of  passion.  And  the  precious  freight  of 
hope  and  faith  and  belief  that  she  carried,  the  loyal  con 
fidence  of  the  simple,  clean,  honest  people  for  whom  he 
had  made  the  paper! 

Strange  and  unexpected  accessions  had  come  to  that 


414  COMMON  CAUSE 

number;  none  stronger  than  the  stubborn  and  violent 
jeweler,  Bernard  Stockmuller,  who  had  abused  Jeremy  on 
the  street  after  the  first  trouble  with  the  Deutscher  Club. 

On  the  morning  after  the  Constantia  was  sunk,  with 
the  first  American  naval  victims,  an  event  upon  which 
Jeremy  had  poured  out  the  hot  fervency  of  his  patriot 
ism,  his  door  was  thrust  open  and  the  powerful  form  of 
the  German  burst  in.  His  face  was  a  dull,  deep  red.  His 
eyes  protruded.  He  was  gasping. 

Believing  that  he  had  to  do  with  a  man  crazed  by  fury, 
Jeremy  jumped  to  his  feet  and  set  himself.  The  expected 
rush  followed,  but  ended  in  a  stagger,  a  gulp,  and  a  burst 
of  unashamed  tears. 

"Dot  bee-ewtiful  tribude!"  sobbed  the  emotional  Ger 
man.  "Dot  bee-ewtiful  tribude  dot  you  haf  printed  in 
your  paper  to  our  boys.  To  my  boy!" 

"Your  boy?  Why,  Stockmuller,  I  did  n't  know  —  " 

"All  the  boy  I  got.  My  nephew,  Henry.  Him  I 
brought  up  and  put  through  the  Ooniversity.  He  iss 
dead.  He  hass  gone  down  in  the  Constantia.  I  am  glad 
he  iss  dead  so  splendid!  I  am  proud  when  I  read  what 
you  have  written.  Und  —  und,  Mr.  Robson,  I  wand 
you  should  —  I  wand  you  should  — " 

"Go  on,  Stockmuller,"  said  Jeremy  gently,  as  the 
other  stopped  with  a  pleading  look.  "Of  course  I  '11  do  it 
—  whatever  it  is  you  want." 

"I  wand  you  should  take  my  ad  back,"  said  Stock 
muller  as  simply  as  a  child. 

"You  bet  I'll  take  it  back!" 

"Mind!  I  dink  you  wass  wrong,  first  off,"  said  the 
honest  and  obstinate  German.  "  I  dink  Inkland  made  dis 
war.  But  my  Henry,  all  the  boy  I  got,  if  he  iss  only  a 


COMMON  CAUSE  415 

nephew,  iss  dead  for  dis  country.  And  now  dis  iss  my 
country  and  my  war!" 

"All  right,  Stockmuller.  Glad  to  have  you  with  us," 
was  all  that  Jeremy,  pretty  well  shaken  by  the  other's 
emotion,  found  to  say.  The  visitor  produced  a  large  and 
ornate  handkerchief,  wherewith  he  openly  wiped  his 
swollen  eyes. 

"Also,  dere  is  someding  else,"  he  stated,  lowering  his 
voice.  The  editor  looked  his  inquiry.  "Monkey  business 
with  your  printer-men." 

"Yes;  I  know  something  about  that." 

"Do  you  know  when  they  strike?" 

"No.  When?" 

"The  day  before  the  new  paper  comes  out." 

Jeremy  whistled  softly. 

"Of  course!  That's  when  they  would,  assuming  that 
it's  a  put-up  job  from  outside.  Where  do  you  get  your 
information?  —  if  it's  a  fair  question." 

Stockmuller  turned  a  painful  red. 

"I  was  on  der  Deutscher  Club  committee,"  he  said. 
"The  segret  committee.  No  more!" 

"Who  are  the  men  in  our  press-room  they're  working 
through?" 

The  visitor  shook  his  head.  "'Weiss  nicht,"  he  mur 
mured. 

"Never  mind;  I  know!  I '11  start  something  for  'em  be 
fore  they're  ready." 

Jem  had  now  definitely  fixed  upon  Nick  Milliken,  the 
white-haired,  vehement  Socialist,  as  the  chief  instigator 
of  trouble  upstairs.  He  no  longer  suspected  Milliken  of 
being  in  the  underground  employ  of  Montrose  Clark  and 
Dana.  He  believed  him  to  be  the  agent  of  Bausch  and 


416  COMMON  CAUSE 

the  Deutscher  Club  committee.  He  sent  for  the  man 
and  discharged  him.  Milliken  took  his  discharge,  at  first, 
in  a  spirit  of  incredulity. 

" Me?  "  he  said.  "  What  have  you  got  it  in  for  me  for?  " 

"You're  a  trouble-maker.  That's  enough." 

"Because  I'm  a  Socialist?  Look-a-here,  Mr.  Rob- 
son—" 

"There's  no  use  in  arguing,  Milliken.  I  won't  have 
you  around." 

"Give  me  a  week,"  said  the  other.  "I  can  tell  you 
some — " 

" Not  a  day!  Get  your  pay  this  noon." 

The  man  hesitated ;  then  with  a  sardonic,  but  not  par 
ticularly  hostile  grin  he  bade  his  employer  good-day. 

"Now  for  the  strike!"  said  Jeremy  to  Andy  Galpin. 

But  the  strike  did  not  come.  Evidently  the  manipula 
tors  in  the  background  would  bide  their  own  time. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

BEHOLD,  now,  Miss  Marcia  Ames,  conspiratress, 
seated  in  the  depths  of  the  Boot  &  Shoe  Infirmary, 
deep  in  converse  with  Dr.  Eli  Wade,  Surgeon  of  Soles  and 
Healer  of  Leather.  Opinion  was  always  to  be  had  at  the 
Sign  of  the  Big  Shoe;  often  information;  sometimes  wis 
dom.  Miss  Ames  was  seeking  light  upon  her  problem 
wherever  she  might  find  it.  Her  scheme  for  Magnus  Lau- 
rens  had  been  successful;  that  in  which  Montrose  Clark 
was  to  have  played  the  Beneficent  Influence,  had  pros 
pered  in  part;  yet  The  Guardian's  downhill  pace  had  been 
only  mitigated,  not  checked.  Methods  more  radical  must 
be  found.  Eli  Wade  proved  at  least  a  friendly,  if  not  a 
broad-visioned  consultant. 

"A  fighter,  thet  young  man  is,"  said  Eli  Wade.  "He 
don't  go  stumblin',  any  more.  Straight,  he  goes.  And  if 
he  falls  at  the  end,  it'll  be  in  the  best  fight  any  man  ever 
made  in  this  town  against  a  gang  of  snakes  and  traitors." 

"But  he  must  not  fall,  Eli!"  cried  the  girl.  "We  must 
not  let  him  fall." 

"Ah!  Thet's  the  talk!  If  them  as  had  oughta  stood  by 
him  had  done  so,  he'd  be  all  right  to-day." 

"Who?  Why  have  they  failed  him?  Is  it  that  they  do 
not  understand?" 

"Blind,"  said  Eli  Wade.  "They  don't  see.  They're 
millin'  round  wherever  the  Germans  and  the  slick  politi 
cians  drive  'em.  If  ever  I  was  fooled  in  a  pair  o'  shoes  it 
was  them  Number  Eights  of  'Smilin'  Mart'  Embree's." 

"But  your  kind  of  people,  Eli!   Simple,  straight,  hon- 


418  COMMON  CAUSE 

est  people.  Why  would  they  not  stand  by  The  Guard 
ian?" 

" Bless  your  soul!  They  do.  They're  solid.  It's  the 
advertisers  thet  are  trippin'  up  his  feet." 

"So  Mr.  Galpin  says.  The  stores." 

"Yes.  The  stores  support  the  newspapers  with  their 
advertising,  an'  so  they  rule  or  ruin  'em." 

"When  have  they  ruled  The  Guardian?" 

"Never.  Nick  Milliken  says  thet's  what's  wrong. 
Thet 's  why  they  're  against  it.  He  says  if  you  could  get 
at  what  supports  the  stores  an'  work  on  thet,  The  Guard 
ian  might  be  pulled  out  yet.  I  got  my  own  notions  about 
thet." 

"About  what  supports  the  stores?  The  public,  does  it 
not?" 

"Part  of  the  public." 

"What  part?" 

"Women-folks,"  said  the  Boot  &  Shoe  Surgeon  tersely. 

Upon  that  pronouncement  Marcia  Ames  pondered. 
There  seemed  to  be  a  gleam  in  it.  The  more  she  thought, 
the  more  the  gleam  expanded.  It  became  a  ray  of 
light. 

"The  women!"  she  said.  "Of  course  they  do.  Who 
ever  saw  a  man  in  a  department  store?  " 

"Well,  I  would  n't  go  thet  far,"  returned  the  Surgeon. 
"I  reckon  they's  a  few.  But  they  don't  wear  out  much 
sole  leather  there.  And  if  any  one  was  to  say  to  The 
Big  Shop  or  The  Northwestern,  or  Ellison  Brothers  or 
any  of  them  big  advertisers,  'We'll  take  the  women-folks 
away,  but  you  can  keep  the  men,'  thet  store  would  about 
close  its  doors  next  week." 

Marcia  Ames  rose  out  of  her  deep  chair.    There  was 


COMMON  CAUSE  419 

a  glow  on  her  face.  "Eli  Wade,"  she  said,  "you  are  a 
great  man!" 

"No,  ma'am"  disclaimed  the  other.  "Jest  a  handy 
man  with  leather." 

"Well,  you  are  a  dear!  And  that  is  better.  I  believe  — 
I  do  believe  —  you  have  shown  the  way.  If  only  there  is 
time !  I  am  going  to  take  your  big  idea  to  high  legal  talent 
for  consultation." 

"Hain't  had  any  big  idea  sence"  —  his  old,  keen  eyes 
twinkled  —  "sence  the  State  Capitol  flew  the  German 
flag  in  honor  of  the  Surrender  Bill.  But  who 's  your  legal 
talent?" 

"Judge  Selden  Dana." 

"You're  the  wonder,  Miss  Marcia.  How'd  you  know 
you  could  trust  him?  He  ain't  always  been  reckoned 
trustable." 

"  No?  But  in  a  matter  like  this  —  I  am  sure." 

"Kee-rect!  You  got  him.  He's  marchin'." 

"Marching?" 

"To  the  music  of  war.  He's  quit  slinkin'.  Left  — 
right,  left  —  right!  True  to  the  drum.  Watch  his  feet." 

"Good-bye,  Eli  Wade,"  said  Marcia.  " If  your  big  idea 
works  out  —  I  shall  love  you  forever." 

To  Judge  Selden  Dana,  when  she  unfolded  it,  it  seemed 
more  like  her  own  idea.  Unquestionably,  however,  it  was 
a  promising  one.  If  there  were  only  time !  If  the  scheme 
could  be  set  afoot  before  The  Fair  Dealer  was  in  the  field; 
if  some  way  could  be  found  to  delay  the  publication  — 
at  which  point  Judge  Dana  fell  to  thinking  powerfully. 
All  the  pleasant  candor  went  out  of  his  face,  as  he  pon 
dered,  and  it  became  subtle  and  secret  and  dark.  Yet  the 
girl,  watching,  liked  it  and  trusted  it  none  the  less  in  this 


420  COMMON  CAUSE 

manifestation.  She  knew  that  the  mind  within  was  work 
ing  to  good  ends.  At  length  he  spoke. 

" I've  got  a  plan  for  The  Fair  Dealer.  No;  never  mind 
what  it  is.  Forget  that  we  even  spoke  of  it." 

"It  is  forgotten." 

"Go  ahead  with  the  women.  Mr.  Clark  and  I  will 
help  where  we  can.  You  can  organize  the  University 
girls?" 

"Yes." 

"Good!  One  more  thing.  Not  a  whisper  of  this  to  Jem 
Robson." 

"  Mr.  Robson  knows  nothing  of  it.  What  I  have  learned 
has  been  from  Mr.  Galpin." 

"  Nor  to  Galpin,  either.  Or  any  one  else  at  The  Guard 
ian." 

"Have  you  a  fancy  to  play  at  mysteries  and  secrets, 
Judge  Dana?"  teased  the  girl. 

"Mysteries?  Secrets?  Great  Scott,  young  woman! 
Collusions  and  conspiracies !  Trust  an  old  fox  of  the  law. 
If  it  should  come  to  an  issue  and  it  could  be  shown  that 
The  Guardian  people  had  knowledge  of  your  precious  lit 
tle  plot  —  well,  I  should  n't  care  to  have  the  case  to  de 
fend.  So,  work  as  quietly  as  you  can.  I  think  a  hun 
dred  women  —  if  they  're  representative,  mind  you,  —  will 
about  do  the  business." 

He  contemplated  her,  with  a  gentle  light  in  his  pinched, 
wrinkled,  shrewd  old  eyes.  "My  dear,"  he  said,  "I  re 
member  four  years  ago,  at  the  Federated  German  Soci 
eties,  how  you  stood  up,  straight  and  brave,  before  all  of 
them." 

" Do  you?"  said  Marcia,  answering  his  smile. 

"You're  still  doing  it.    Still  standing  upas  you  did 


COMMON  CAUSE  421 

then.  I  'd  do  a  good  deal  for  you,  if  it  were  only  in  mem 
ory  of  that." 

"Thank  you,  Judge  Dana,"  she  said  simply. 

"And  I'd  do  a  good  deal  for  that  young  hot-head,  Jem 
Robson.  About  anything  I  could  do,  I  guess." 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  girl  again,  but  there  was  a  thrill 
in  her  voice  this  time. 

Into  the  devious  ways  of  the  legal  profession  and  of 
railroad  operation  when  they  run  parallel  it  is  not  meet 
for  the  layman  to  inquire  too  closely.  Suffice  it  to  say 
here  that  Judge  Selden  Dana  took  a  brief  trip  to  the  office 
of  a  certain  railway  system,  and  thence  followed  up  a  cer 
tain  consignment  of  freight  which  subsequently  became 
the  innocent  victim  of  cross-orders  to  the  extent  of 
getting  itself  mysteriously  and  obscurely  side-tracked 
while  certain  interests  in  Fenchester  afflicted  the  heavens 
above,  the  earth  beneath,  the  Postal  Telegraph,  the  West 
ern  Union,  and  all  the  long-distance  wires  with  fran 
tic  inquiries.  Further  it  may  be  stated  that  this  sort  of 
law-and-railroad  practice  is  such  as  would  have  been  se 
verely  condemned  by  Mr.  Jeremy  Robson,  editor  of  The 
Guardian,  had  he  known  of  it.  He  knew  nothing.  There 
were  many  and  important  matters  happening  at  this  time 
whereof  he  knew  nothing. 

This  matter  having  been  arranged,  Judge  Dana  made 
an  appointment  by  telephone,  and  called  to  see  Jeremy. 

"Got  another  dicker  to  suggest,  Judge?"  the  editor 
greeted  him,  with  indulgent  raillery. 

"No,"  returned  the  caller  slowly;  "no  dicker.  This  is 
serious  business,  young  man.  How  long  are  you  going  to 
be  able  to  hold  out?" 

"  Don't  you  worry  about  us,"  said  Jeremy,  who  had  n't 


422  COMMON  CAUSE 

the  smallest  intention  of  betraying1  the  paper's  status  to 
the  wily  lawyer.  " There's  a  lot  of  fight  left  in  the  old 
hulk  yet." 

"What  about  this  strike?" 

"So  you've  heard  about  that?" 

"I've  seen  Milliken." 

"Milliken  is  fired." 
\  "So  he  told  me." 

"How  came  you  to  be  on  such  close  terms  with  a  rank 
Socialist?"  taunted  the  editor. 

"I'll  be  on  terms  with  a  rattlesnake  if  he'll  play  my 
game,"  replied  the  lawyer  with  one  of  those  bursts  of 
frankness  wherewith  he  occasionally  favored  Jeremy. 
"  Never  mind  Milliken  now.  Can  you  beat  out  this  strike 
if  it  comes?" 

Suddenly  Jeremy  looked  tired  and  old. 
,    "I  don't  know,"  he  said  lifelessly. 

"Is  there  any  danger  of  The  Guardian  having  to  give 
up  in  the  next  month?" 

"It's  getting  harder  sledding  all  the  time,"  confessed 
Jeremy.  "The  strike  might  finish  us,  at  that." 

"Publication  date  of  The  Fair  Dealer  is  postponed 
two  weeks,"  observed  the  lawyer. 

"No!  What's  caused  that?" 

"How  should  I  know?  They  say  part  of  the  machinery 
has  been  lost  in  transit.  It  was  shipped  via  the  Lake  Belt 
Line,  for  which  I  happen  to  be  counsel.  But  I  can't  imag 
ine"  —  he  paused,  and  Jeremy  saw  a  distinct,  enlighten 
ing  flicker  of  his  left  eyelid  —  "I  can  not  imagine  what  has 
caused  the  unfortunate  delay !  I  should  think  there  might 
be  danger  of  their  losing  some  of  their  promised  adver 
tising." 


COMMON  CAUSE  423 

"Oh,  their  contracts  are  all  made.  Trust  Verrall  for 
that." 

"Doubtless.  But  will  they  hold?  I  understand  they 
specified  an  issue  of  July  5th." 

"What  of  it?"  said  Jeremy  wearily.  "The  advertisers 
will  make  new  contracts.  You  could  n't  pry  'em  away 
from  that  twenty-five  thousand  circulation  at  the  low 
rate  given." 

"Who  knows  what  the  morrow  may  bring  forth?"  said 
the  lawyer  oracularly.  "'I  could  a  tale  unfold'  — "  He 
stopped,  with  a  large  gesture. 

"There's  always  a  cloven  hoof  that  goes  with  your 
kind  of  tail,"  retorted  Jeremy.  "But  if  you've  really  got 
anything  cheery  up  your  sleeve,  spring  it.  I  could  do  with 
a  little  cheering-up  right  now.  That  postponement  of 
publication  is  a  good  start.  What's  next?" 

"My  son,  the  less  you  know  just  now,  the  better.  But 
I  '11  tell  you  this :  Some  of  us  who  are  —  well  —  inter 
ested  in  The  Guardian,  for  reasons  of  our  own,  are  skat 
ing  on  the  thin  edge  of  conspiracy,  treason,  stratagem,  and 
crime,  as  it  is.  Do  you  want  in?  You  do  not  want  in !  You 
stay  out  and  keep  a  stiff  upper  lip.  Can't  use  any  of  our 
spare  cash?  No!  Well,  if  your  neck  was  a  little  stiffer  it  'd 
break!  Good-bye,  and  hang  on!" 

All  of  which  Jeremy  promptly  retailed  to  the  faithful 
Galpin  with  the  comment: 

"Something 's  certainly  up,  but  how  much  is  for  us,  and 
how  much  for  Clark,  Dana  &  Company,  I  don't  know." 

"You  got  a  mean,  suspicious  sort  of  mind,  Boss," 
grinned  the  general  manager.  "But  I  admit  I  don't  get 
that  bunch  yet." 

"Nor  I.  But  I'm  watching." 


424  COMMON  CAUSE 

"Somebody's  pushing  on  the  reins  upstairs  again.  If 
the  strike  don't  bust  this  week,  I'm  a  goat!  I  caught 
Milliken  hanging  round  yesterday  and  chased  him  out. 
Gave  him  the  police  talk." 

"Dana  knew  all  about  Milliken  and  the  strike.  Had 
it  from  Milliken  himself." 

"Wheels  and  wheels  and  wheels!"  commented  Andy, 
making  expansive  and  elegantly  rounded  gestures. 
"Wheels  within  wheels;  wheels  without  wheels;  wheels 
going  in  opposite  directions  and  at  different  speeds.  They 
make  me  dizzy!" 

They  made  Jeremy  dizzy,  too.  At  least,  something 
made  him  dizzy.  He  was  dizzy  a  good  deal  of  the  time, 
and  tired.  Very  tired.  He  thought  that  some  vague  and 
hopeful  day  he  'd  take  a  week  off.  When  things  quieted 
down.  When  Andy's  anathematized  "Botches"  let  up  on 
the  paper.  When  advertisers  ceased  to  trouble.  When 
the  whole  show  was  over  and  the  final  issue  of  The  Guard 
ian  had  closed  with  its  final  challenge  to  the  forces  of 
Deutschtum.  When  his  heart  stopped  crying  out  for 
Marcia. 

Meantime  he  wearily  wished  he  could  get  a  night's 
sleep. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

SUCH  advantage  as  the  bee  may  boast  over  the  but 
terfly  is  proverbially  supposed  to  inhere  in  its  indus 
trious  habits.  But  Miss  Marcia  Ames,  now  adopting  the 
schedule  of  the  bee  at  its  busiest,  found  her  earlier  butter 
fly  proclivities  of  advantage  in  that  they  had  put  her  in 
touch  with  certain  flowers  of  Fenchester's  social  world 
with  which  the  harder-worked  honey-collector  might  not 
have  been  so  familiar.  Visiting  these  upon  her  proselytiz 
ing  errand,  this  enterprising  flitter,  still  trailing  clouds  of 
glory  from  her  butterfly  hood,  left  behind  her  the  fructify 
ing  pollen  of  the  Great  Idea.  In  one  respect  —  to  carry 
the  entomological  metaphor  a  step  farther  —  she  was  like 
a  moth  rather  than  either  the  butterfly  or  the  bee,  since 
her  good  works,  to  be  effective,  must  needs  be  carried  on 
in  the  dusk  of  a  semi-secrecy. 

Behold  our  bee,  now,  hovering  about  the  garden  of  that 
ancient  but  still  lively  wasp,  Madam  Dorothea  Taylor, 
until  bidden  to  alight  and  state  her  errand,  whereof  the 
venerable  one,  having  already  received  some  hint  from 
her  friend,  Letitia  Pritchard,  is  alertly  suspicious.  Ac 
cepting  the  invitation,  the  visiting  bee  leads  up  diplo 
matically  to  the  first  point  of  risk,  the  name  of  Jeremy 
Robson. 

"A  slanderer!"  rasps  the  wasp.  "A  character-robber. 
A  rag-tag  and  bob-tail  cheap-and-nasty  politician !" 

The  bee  goes  on  with  her  musical,  conciliatory,  and 
soothing  song,  and  presently  mentions  The  Guardian. 


426  COMMON  CAUSE 

"Don't  name  the  rag  to  me!"  blares  the  enraged  wasp. 
"A  filthy  sheet!  The  poison  of  asps!  A  mud-slinger!  A 
tool  of  that  torch-and-scaffold,  anarchistic  harlequin, 
Martin  Embree." 

"Have  you  read  it  lately?"  queries  the  bee. 
;    "God  forbid!  I  would  n't  endure  a  copy  in  the  house." 

"How  fortunate,"  hums  the  bee  sweetly,  "that  I 
brought  only  small  portions  of  one  or  two  copies." 

Cleverly  stimulating  the  other's  curiosity,  our  cunning 
bee  succeeds  in  persuading  her  to  look  at  the  clipping 
wherein  Martin  Embree,  Emil  Bausch,  and  the  Kaiser 
stand  forth  wreathed  in  the  olive  of  a  mock-pacifism. 
Now  is  the  wasp's  angry  voice  hushed,  as  she  peruses  this 
and  follows  it  with  the  now  famous  "hyphen"  editorial, 
and  the  political  quittance  of  Martin  Embree. 
;  "He  appears  to  have  lost  none  of  his  venom,"  observes 
the  reader,  "though  he  is  now  turning  it  against  his  own 
kind." 

"They  are  not  his  own  kind ! "  The  bee  for  the  moment 
forgets  that  she  is  committed  to  the  soft  footing  of  diplo 
macy.  "  I  will  not  hear  it  said  that  they  are  his  own  kind ! 
We  are  his  own  kind :  we  Americans ! " 

"Hoity-toity  and  here's  a  to-do!"  cries  the  aged  wasp. 
"Are  we,  indeed?  Not  I,  you  minx!  That  gullible  old 
fool,  Selden  Dana,  has  been  preaching  from  the  same  text. 
He  wheedled  me  into  withdrawing  my  libel  suit  against 
the  young  backbiter.  Why  I  was  silly  enough  to  do  so,  / 
don't  know.  Now,  what  are  you  asking  me  to  do?" 

"Help,"  answers  the  visiting  bee,  and  sets  forth  a  gen 
eral  outline  of  her  plan. 

"Boycott,"  observes  the  shrewd  old  wasp,  after  turn 
ing  it  over  in  her  mind. 


COMMON  CAUSE  427 

"Oh,  not  in  the  least!"  disclaims  the  bee.  "That 
would  be  illegal." 

"Pooh!  Who  cares  for  laws!  Boycott  it  is,  against  any 
merchant  who  won't  support  The  Guardian.  Is  n't  it?" 

"It  might  appear  — " 

"Appear!  Don't  hem-and-haw  with  me,  Miss  Pert.  I 
can  hire  Dana  to  do  that.  You  're  asking  the  women  of  this 
city  to  boycott  the  stores  that  boycott  The  Guardian." 

"Dear  me,  no!"  returns  the  bee  demurely.  "We  are 
only  suggesting  a  practical  method  of  showing  apprecia 
tion  of  Mr.  Rob —  of  The  Guardian's  patriotic  course. 
And  if  you  will  join  our  little  association  and  bring  your 
Red  Cross  work  down  with  you  for  a  few  minutes  each 
morning,  that  is  all  we  ask  of  you." 

"Of  me!  There's  the  point.  Me!  I've  been  libeled  and 
slandered  and  traduced  and  held  up  to  public  scorn," 
sizzles  the  wasp  (who  had,  since  the  withdrawal  of  the 
suit,  enjoyed  one  last  reading  of  Judge  Dana's  compre 
hensive  complaint  with  stimulating  influence  upon  her 
style),  "and  now  you  have  the  assurance  to  ask  me  to 
rush  to  the  aid  of  this  reckless  young  muck-raker.  It's 
absurd!  It's  outrageous!  It's  an  impudence!  It's  an 
imposition !  It 's  —  it 's  —  I  '11  do  it." 

"I  knew  you  would,"  softly  says  the  bee  (who  had  n't 
known  anything  of  the  sort,  and  has,  indeed,  dreaded  this 
visit  above  all  others).  "I  do  not  think  you  will  ever  be 
sorry." 

"I  hope  you  won't,"  retorts  the  wasp  vigorously  and 
significantly.  "That's  a  dangerous  character,  that  young 
Robson.  Have  a  care  of  him!" 

Having  made  captive  her  most  difficult  subject,  the 
missionary  bee  now  descends  upon  one  hardly  less  difri- 


428  COMMON  CAUSE 

cult,  Mrs.  Vernam  Merserole,  wife  (and,  if  rumor  be  cor 
rect,  head  of  the  house)  of  the  "  nickel-in-the-slot "  rec 
tor.  Mrs.  Merserole,  looking  meek,  according  to  her 
practice,  but  stubborn,  according  to  her  character,  harks 
back  to  past  injuries,  and  talks  darkly  of  defamers  of 
character  as  one  might  say  "  persecutors  of  the  saints." 

4 'That  was  before  we  were  at  war,  Mrs.  Merserole," 
her  caller  reminds  her. 

Mrs.  Merserole  looks  up  quickly  from  her  clasped 
hands.  "You  think  that  to-day  Mr.  Robson  would  not 
make  an  unprincipled  attack  upon  —  upon  a  clergyman 
who  did  nothing  more  than  his  duty?" 

Diplomatic  though  her  errand  be,  Marcia  will  not  pass 
this  challenge  to  her  truthfulness.  "I  do  not  say  that. 
Nor  do  I  admit  that  what  he  wrote  was  unprincipled.  He 
wrote  what  he  believed.  He  would  do  that  again  to-mor 
row.  But  I  do  know  that  he  is  a  broader  and  more  chari 
table  man  than  he  was  then." 

"War  does  not  change  men's  characters,  Miss  Ames," 
says  the  rector's  wife  austerely. 

"Then  God  help  the  men!"  bursts  out  Marcia.  "And 
God  help  the  country!" 

"Why,  my  dear!"  says  the  older  woman,  shaken  by 
the  girl's  vehemence.  "You  think  it  does?  Perhaps 
you're  right.  Yes;  I  think  you're  right.  But  Mr.  Rob- 
son—" 

"Mrs.  Merserole,"  breaks  in  Marcia  with  apparent  ir 
relevance,  "I  have  heard  that  your  boy  picked  out  the 
aviation  service  because  it  is  the  most  dangerous,  and  that 
you  told  him  that  he  had  done  what  you  would  choose 
him  to  do." 

The  other  does  not  reply.  But  her  lips  quiver,  and  her 


COMMON  CAUSE  429 

tightly  clasped  fingers  press  in  on  each  other.  Marcia  lays 
her  warm,  strong  little  hand  over  them. 

"You  have  done  a  great  thing  like  that.  And  now  I  ask 
you  to  do  a  little  thing.  To  forget  an  old  injury." 

"But  Mr.  Merserole  —  he  feels  toward  The  Guardian 
—  I  cannot  express  it  to  you,"  falters  the  other. 

"The  Guardian  is  a  forlorn  hope,"  returns  Marcia. 
"Mr.  Robson  is  sacrificing  it  and  with  it  all  his  ambitions 
and  his  future  for  the  sake  of  a  principle.  That  is  his  part 
in  the  war;  the  only  part  he  can  play." 

"Is  it?  I  had  heard  otherwise." 

"What  have  you  heard?" 

"That  he  persuaded  a  doctor  to  declare  him  unfit." 

"That  is  a  lie,"  declares  Marcia  calmly,  and  gives  the 
facts.  "Who  told  you  the  lie?  "  she  asks,  at  the  close  of  the 
recital. 

The  other  hesitates.  "Mrs.  Robert  Wanser,"  she  says, 
at  length.  "I  will  speak  to  the  rector  about  your  plan," 
she  adds,  and,  by  her  tone,  Marcia  knows  that  she  has 
won  another  recruit. 

So  from  house  to  house  flits  the  busy  bee,  arguing  here, 
pleading  there,  feeling  her  way  cautiously  in  doubtful 
places  and  always  imposing  secrecy  until  the  organization 
shall  be  completed;  enlisting  trustworthy  lieutenants, — 
Miss  Pritchard;  little  Anne  Serviss,  vice-president  of  the 
senior  class  at  Old  Central;  Magnus  Laurens's  daughter, 
who  comes  down  from  the  country  to  hot  and  dusty  Fen- 
chester  to  help;  Miss  Abbie  Rappelje,  sister  of  the  Pro 
fessor  of  Economics;  Mrs.  Montrose  Clark;  and,  chief est 
of  all,  the  wary  and  wily  Judge  Selden  Dana,  .  .  .  who, 
by  the  way,  is  working  out  a  little  scheme  of  his  own  all 
the  time,  in  which  Marcia  is  no  more  than  a  pawn,  and 


430  COMMON  CAUSE 

without  saying  a  word  to  her  about  it.    Trust  Dana  for 
that! 

While  these  processes  were  moving  more  or  less  bump- 
ily  on  their  appointed  course  outside  The  Guardian  office, 
those  wheels  within  wheels,  upon  which  Andrew  Galpin 
had  philosophically  animadverted,  were  whirling  at  an 
accelerated  pace  inside.  The  postponement  of  The  Fair 
Dealer's  publication  day  had  been  a  blow  to  certain  devel 
oping  plans  in  The  Guardian's  press-room.  When  a  labor 
leader  has  sedulously  fomented  ill-feeling,  worked  it  al 
most  to  the  point  of  explosion,  promised  the  malcontents 
another  job  at  increased  pay  if  they  strike  to  order  on  a 
certain  date,  and  then  had  that  date  unavoidably  post 
poned,  his  position  becomes  difficult  and  his  next  step 
doubtful.  Such  was  the  situation  in  the  press-room  of 
The  Guardian.  It  was  accentuated  by  the  fact  that  The 
Guardian's  editor  had  taken  to  editorializing  quite 
frankly  upon  certain  developments  in  the  labor  world 
outside,  thereby  furnishing  extra  incentive  to  the  waiting 
strikers,  for,  radical  though  he  was,  Jeremy  held  himself 
as  free  to  criticize  labor  as  capital  when  he  deemed  it  in 
the  wrong.  In  fact  he  was  in  the  midst  of  a  mid-afternoon 
editorial  for  the  morrow  on  "Labor  and  the  War,"  when 
he  came  out  of  the  fog  of  mental  toil  into  a  sensation  of 
something  wrong,  something  lacking.  The  presses  had 
stopped.  Surely  it  was  n't  time  for  the  run  to  be  over! 
No;  his  watch  marked  four-ten. 

From  above  sounded  the  scuffling  of  feet ;  a  door  opened 
and  a  furious,  hard-breathing  voice  shouted  an  oath.  Now 
there  was  a  hubbub  of  voices,  dull  in  the  distance,  and 
the  floor  shook  lightly  under  some  impact.  Jeremy  got  to 


COMMON  CAUSE  431 

his  feet,  shaking  and  sweating.  To  such  a  condition  of 
nerves  had  the  overwork  and  overstrain  of  the  last  few 
weeks  reduced  him.  He  forced  himself  toward  the  door 
—  when,  with  a  roar  and  a  clack,  the  presses  took  up  their 
rhythm  again,  making  sweet  music  for  the  relief  of  his 
beleaguered  mind. 

He  returned  to  his  editorial.  But  the  savor  of  the  work 
had  gone.  He  was  too  deeply  preoccupied  with  what  had 
happened  upstairs.  That  was  Galpin's  department;  he 
made  it  a  practice  not  to  interfere.  Yet,  until  the  last  run 
was  off  the  presses  and  the  machinery  was  silenced,  he 
sat,  intent  and  speculating. 

The  clang  of  a  gong  sounded  outside.  From  his  window 
he  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  departing  ambulance.  Was  there 
some  connection  between  that  and  the  turmoil  above? 
The  men  had  not  come  down,  though  it  was  past  time. 
He  decided  to  go  to  the  press-room  and  investigate. 

On  the  top  step  he  stopped  short.  Somebody  was  mak 
ing  a  speech.  Surely  that  was  Nick  Milliken's  voice  — 
Milliken,  who  had  been  threatened  with  arrest  if  he  re 
turned!  Milliken's  voice  and  Milliken's  propaganda,  for 
he  was  saying: 

"Some  day  we'll  own  this  stick-in-the-mud  old  plant, 
all  of  us  together.  We  '11  own  it  and  run  it  for  the  com 
mon  good  and  the  common  profit.  Some  day  we  '11  own 
all  production,  and  run  it  for  the  common  good  and  the 
common  profit !  That  '11  come.  But  that  ain't  our  job  now, 
comrades.  We  've  got  something  else  on  hand,  first." 

The  editor  and  owner  of  the  plant,  thus  cavalierly  com 
mitted  to  common  control,  laid  his  hand  on  the  knob  of 
the  door,  but  paused  to  hear  the  speaker's  next  words : 

"  Now  about  this  strike :  I  'm  for  the  strike.  I  'm  for  any 


432  COMMON  CAUSE 

strike  —  at  the  right  time.  But  this  ain't  the  time. 
Lemme  give  you  a  little  parable,  comrades." 

Jeremy  sat  upon  the  top  step  and  listened  to  the  para 
ble  of  Milliken,  the  Socialist.  When  it  was  over  he  tip 
toed  quietly  down  the  stairs  and  into  his  own  office.  There 
he  lay  in  wait  until  he  heard  the  meeting  break  up  and  the 
tramp  of  descending  feet.  Standing  sentry,  he  intercepted 
the  speaker  and  called  him  into  the  sanctum. 

"Will  you  come  back  to  the  job?"  said  Jeremy. 

"Sure!"  returned  the  other.  He  was  spent  and  hag 
gard,  but  his  eyes  were  alight  with  triumph.  "I  was 
never  off  it." 

"  I  heard  your  speech  —  part  of  it  —  enough  so  I  knew 
I  had  you  wrong." 

' l  It  did  the  business.  The  strike 's  spoiled." 

"Off?" 

" Might  as  well  be.  There'll  be  six  or  seven  Germans 
quit.  But  they  can't  do  much  without  Girdner.  He 's  the 
one  that 's  been  playing  merry  hell  with  the  whole  show." 

"Where's  Girdner?" 

"Hospital." 

"What  happened  to  him?" 

"He  fell  downstairs,"  said  Milliken  casually  but 
happily. 

"Oh!  Unassisted?" 

"He  threw  me  out  of  the  meeting.  Easy  picking  for 
him.  You  'd  be  surprised  to  see  how  quick  he  hustled  me 
through  the  door,"  said  the  other  regretfully.  "He  might 
have  hurt  me  bad;  I  would  n't  be  surprised.  He  was  real 
rough  with  me.  Then,  just  as  we  got  to  the  top  of  the 
stairs,  one  of  my  arms  took  to  flopping  round  kind  of  gen 
eral,  a*nd  he  got  hit  on  the  jaw.  Queer  how  things  come 


COMMON  CAUSE  433 

back  to  you!"  observed  the  white-haired  Socialist,  with 
surpassing  innocence.  "It  never  came  into  my  mind  till 
then  that  I  once  spent  two  years  in  a  fighters'  stable." 

"I  see,"  said.  Jeremy  thoughtfully.  "No  —  I  don't 
know.  I  thought  you  Socialists — " 

"I  thought  you  capitalists — "  interrupted  the  other 
with  instant  retort. 

Jeremy  laughed. 

"I  guess  you  were  an  American  before  you  were  a 
Socialist." 

"When  I  can't  be  both  I'll  quit  being  either,"  an 
swered  the  other  fiercely. 

"I  do  see!"  said  the  other.  "You're  in  that  same 
trench  with  Judge  Dana,  where  it  makes  no  difference 
who  or  what  a  man  is  so  long  as  he  fights  on  the  level  and 
to  a  finish." 

"I  guess  I  am  —  comrade!"  said  Milliken,  the  So 
cialist. 


CHAPTER   XIX 

SOMETHING  queer  happened  to  young  Mr.  Jeremy 
Robson  on  the  night  of  July  loth.  Despite  a  lumpy 
sensation  in  the  back  of  his  neck  and  his  habitual  effect  of 
being  absolutely  fagged  out  by  the  day's  work,  he  had 
gone  to  bed  with  the  resilient  assurance  of  youth  that  he 
would  awake  refreshed  and  fit  in  the  morning.  Instead, 
he  woke  up  feeling  aged  beyond  the  power  of  the  mind  to 
grasp:  a  mere  crumbling  ruin,  compared  to  which  the 
pyramid  of  Cheops  was  a  parvenu  and  the  Druidic  altars 
of  Stonehenge  the  mushroom  growth  of  a  paltry  yester 
day.  Worse  than  this,  there  was  a  dregsy,  bitter  taste  in 
his  soul.  It  grew  and  spread ;  and  presently  as  he  lay  mis 
erably  wondering  at  it,  developed  into  a  gall-and-worm- 
wood  loathing  of  the  circumstanding  world's  activities, 
but  particularly  of  his  work,  the  purposeless,  futile,  inex 
orable  toil  of  The  Guardian,  daily  re-galvanized  into  the 
appearance  of  life,  but  in  reality  doomed  to  swift  and 
hopeless  dissolution. 

For  a  moment  his  thoughts  turned  from  hatred  to  Mar- 
cia.  A  receding  vision,  "the  lands  of  Dream  among," 
hopelessly  beyond  the  reach  of  a  Failure.  Inexpressibly 
old,  Mr.  Jeremy  Robson  wrote  "Finis"  upon  the  scroll 
of  his  fate  and  sat  up  in  bed  the  better  to  contemplate  the 
wreckage  which  had  been  himself.  Immediately  things 
began  to  revolve  in  his  head.  Wheels.  Andrew  Galpin's 
wheels.  Wheels  of  all  sizes  and  brutally  distorted  shapes 
whirling  in  counter-directions  with  an  imbecile  and  nau- 


COMMON  CAUSE  435 

seous  suavity,  weaving  into  unendurable  patterns  the 
warp  and  woof  of  his  comprehensive  hatred. 

"Bosh!"  said  Jeremy  Robson.  He  stood  up  and 
promptly  fell  down. 

"Too  much  pressure,"  pronounced  Doc  Summerfield, 
arriving  at  speed.  "You  stop,  young  man,  or  you'll  be 
stopped." 

"Give  me  something  to  steady  me  up,"  begged  Jeremy. 
"  I  Ve  got  to  go  to  the  office  to-day!" 

"Have  you?"  returned  the  physician  grimly.  "Drink 
this." 

Sleep  descended  powerfully  upon  Jeremy,  blotting  out 
hatreds  and  worries  and  all  other  considerations  for  the 
time.  It  held  him  in  its  toils  for  successive  days  and 
nights;  how  many  he  could  not  have  told.  Once  he  woke 
up,  quite  clear  in  his  head,  and  looked  out  across  a  broad 
piazza,  through  elms  and  shrubbery  upon  the  crested 
lake,  and  was  about  to  congratulate  himself  upon  his 
recovery  (though  he  could  not  quite  figure  out  to  what 
pleasant  spot  he  had  been  translated)  when  Mrs.  Mont- 
rose  Clark  came  into  the  room — which  was,  of  course, 
delirium —  and  asked  him  how  he  felt  and  whether  he 
was  hungry.  Later  Doc  Summerfield  arrived,  declined  to 
explain,  said,  "Drink  this"  (he  was  always  and  forever 
saying,  "Drink  this")  "and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  to 
morrow." 

So,  on  the  morrow —  or  it  might  have  been  the  follow 
ing  century  for  all  Jeremy  knew —  Doc  Summerfield 
came  back  and  delivered  a  syncopated  monologue : 

"Yes.  You  are  at  Mr.  Montrose  Clark's  cottage.  .  .  . 
No;  you  certainly  can't  go  home.  Don't  be  a  jackass!  .  .  . 
No ;  the  paper  has  n't  gone  up.  It 's  doing  very  well  with- 


436  COMMON  CAUSE 

out  you.  ...  No;  of  course  you're  not  going  down  to  the 
office.  Don't  be  a  fool!  .  .  .  Heart?  No;  it  is  n't  your 
heart.  It's  nerves.  Overwork.  That's  all.  Don't  be  a 
ninny.  .  .  .  Certainly  you  '11  be  all  right.  In  a  few  days,  if 
you  '11  behave  yourself  and  not  act  like  a  blithering  sim 
pleton.  .  .  .  Drink  this." 

What  seemed  to  Jeremy  so  long  and  uncertain  a  period 
was,  in  reality,  only  a  little  over  a  week.  Came  a  day 
when  the  Montrose  Clarks  sent  him  out  for  a  ride  with 
their  chauffeur,  otherwise  unattended,  and  he  prevailed 
upon  that  guileless  youth  to  take  him  to  the  office. 

"  Don't  wait.  I  '11  telephone,"  said  he,  and  made  for  his 
den. 

At  first,  as  he  entered,  he  felt  a  qualm  of  nausea.  This 
passed,  to  be  succeeded  by  a  dull  languor.  He  shook  this 
off  and,  finding  that  wheels  no  longer  revolved  within  his 
head  when  he  tried  to  think,  he  decided  that  he  was  fit  for 
work.  Pursuing  this  theory,  he  settled  to  his  work-table 
when  the  door  burst  open  and  Andrew  Galpin  rushed 
in. 

"Where  the  devil —  "  he  began  and  started  back  as 
from  an  apparition.  " For  the  love  of  Mike! "  he  shouted. 
"Where  did  you  come  from?" 

"The  Montrose  Clark  cottage." 

"Go  back!  Get  out!  You  ought  to  be  in  bed." 

"  I  have  been.  I  'm  tired  of  it." 

"  What  would  Doc  Summerfield  say?" 

"The  usual  thing:  'Drink  this.'  What  do  you  suppose 
he'd  say  to  you?" 

The  general  manager  was  red,  perspiring,  and  di 
sheveled,  and  there  was  a  vague,  wild,  and  incomprehen 
sible  gleam  in  his  eye. 


COMMON  CAUSE  437 

"Me?  What 's  he  got  to  do  with  me?  " 

"How  do  I  know?  You  don't  look —  well,  normal." 

"Don't  I!"  retorted  his  subordinate  with  some  heat. 
"Then  just  lemme  tell  you  that  I  'm  the  only  normal  gink 
left  in  the  business.  I  'm  sane ;  that 's  what 's  the  matter 
with  me  I  That 's  what  makes  me  look  so  queer  and  feel  so 
lonely." 

"You'd  have  to  prove  it  to  me,"  retorted  his  chief. 

"That's  because  you've  got  it,  too.  Only  yours  takes 
a  different  form  from  the  rest.  Go  back  to  bed,  Boss. 
But  first,  where 's  that  file  of  special  contracts?" 

"Try  the  cabinet  there.  What  do  you  want  of 
'em?" 

Galpin  found  the  documents,  and  turned  upon  Jeremy. 

"Boss,  this  man's  town  had  gone  batty.  Plumb  bugs! 
Hopeless  case." 

"You  know  what  happens  to  a  man  who  discovers  that 
everybody  else  is  crazy,  Andy." 

"It's  gone  completely  nuts  over  The  Guardian,"  pur 
sued  the  other,  ignoring  the  intimation.  "We  're  a  hobby. 
An  obsession.  A  fad!  A  fashion!  A  killing!  A  — " 

"What's  got  you,  Andy?"  asked  the  editor  anxiously. 
"Come  down  to  earth." 

"Can't!  I'm  a  balloon.  Watch  me  soar !"  The  usually 
stolid  manager  performed  a  bacchanalian  fling.  "Con 
tracts!"  he  panted.  "Reams  of  'em!  Money!  Gobs  of 
it!  Circulation!  Going  uh-uh-up !  Whee!" 

"Andy,  I  'm  not  feeling  very  husky;  but  in  a  moment  I 
shall  throw  you  down  and  sit  on  your  neck." 

"Can't  be  done!  I  could  lick  the  Kaiser  and  all  his 
Botches  single-handed.  Boss,  the  luck  has  broke!  The 
town  is  coming  our  way." 


438  COMMON  CAUSE 

"How?  Why?  What's  happened?" 

"I'd  like  to  tell  you,  but  I  have  n't  got  time.  They're 
waiting  for  me  downstairs." 

"Who?" 

"Advertisers.  Waiting  to  break  into  The  Guardian. 
They  're  lined  up  in  the  hallways.  I  '11  have  to  issue  rain- 
checks." 

"Stop  talking  like  a  lunatic,  Andy,  and  explain." 

The  demented  manager  perched  upon  the  corner  of  the 
editorial  table,  with  an  effect  of  being  poised  for  instant 
flight. 

"Don't  ask  me  to  explain,  because  I  can't.  I  tell  you 
the  advertisers  of  this  town  have  suddenly  got  a  mania  — 
and  we're  the  mania.  It  began  two  days  ago  and  it's 
been  growing  worse  right  along.  I  did  n't  think  I  'd  ever 
be  able  to  break  through  to  the  office  this  morning.  They 
waylaid  me  on  the  way  down.  I  don't  know  who  began 
it.  I  think  it  was  Stormont,  of  Stormont  &  Lehn.  He  fell 
out  of  a  doorway  on  me,  and  when  I  got  loose  there  was  a 
thousand-dollar  advertising  contract  stuck  down  my  col 
lar.  Then  old  Pussy-foot  Ellison  came  sobbing  up  the 
street — " 

"What  the  devil—" 

" Don't  interrupt  me  or  I'll  bust!  And  never  mind  my 
metaphors.  It  comes  easier  that  way.  Well,  he  blubbered 
out  his  sweet  message  of  intending  to  double  his  space  in 
the  paper  instead  of  cutting  us  out ;  and  before  I  'd  got  his 
tears  fairly  brushed  off  my  shoulder,  Vogt,  the  Botch, 
rushed  in,  threw  his  arms  round  my  neck  and  tried  to  kiss 
me,  and  handed  me  an  eight-hundred-dollar-space  order 
in  lieu  of  damages;  and  asked  whether  we  would  n't  like 
flowers  sent  round  mornings,  gratis!  Boss,  I  can  just  see 


COMMON  CAUSE  439 

you  writing  an  editorial  with  one  of  Vogt's  tea-roses 
stuck  coyly  behind  your  ear — " 

" Never  mind  my  ear.   Go  on!  " 

"How  can  I  remember  who  mobbed  me!  I  do  recall 
that  Arndt,  of  the  furniture  shop,  knocked  me  down  and 
dragged  me  into  an  alley;  and  when  I  came  to  there  was  a 
signed  agreement  to  restore  all  the  space  they  lifted  from 
us,  and  twenty-five  per  cent  over  and  above.  And,  by  the 
way,  I  saw  the  Governor  hiking  into  Bausch's  office  and 
looking  about  as  cheerful  as  a  banshee  with  a  bellyache. 
Oh,  there's  big  doings  of  some  kind,  you  bet!  All  the 
morning  the  'phone  has  been  buzzing  and  —  Who 's 
that  having  hysterics  in  the  hall?" 

He  threw  open  the  door,  and  Mr.  Adolph  Ahrens,  of 
The  Great  Northwestern  Stores,  bounded  in,  uttering  a 
wild,  low  wail,  the  burden  of  which  seemed  to  be  some 
thing  about  a  "misunderstanding."  He  also  mentioned 
the  word  "blackmail,"  and  hastily  retracted  it.  He  had 
always,  he  asserted  passionately,  been  friendly  to  The 
Guardian.  He  admired  it  for  its  lofty  courage,  its  un 
failing  fair-mindedness,  its  patriotism;  and  as  an  ad 
vertising  medium  he  considered  it  without  parallel  or 
equal. 

In  token  of  which  he  had  brought  his  copy  for  a  full 
page  in  that  day's  issue.  And  would  Mr.  Robson  kindly 
note  that  he  had  taken  a  box  for  the  Loyalty  Rally  on 
Saturday,  being  as  good  an  American  as  anybody,  even  if 
he  did  bear  a  German  name?  And  so,  exit  Mr.  Ahrens, 
stringing  out  deprecatory  statements  about  a  misunder 
standing  as  he  went. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  Andy,  what  does  it  all  mean?" 

The  general  manager  shook  his  disheveled  head. 


440  COMMON  CAUSE 

"Search  me!"  he  said  gravely.  -"Except  for  this:  It 
means  that  The  Guardian  wins." 

"Have  you  reckoned  it  up?" 

"Don't  need  to.  Outside  a  few  of  the  Old  Prussian 
Guard  in  the  Deutscher  Club  we've  got  everything  back 
that  we  lost,  and  a  heap  more  on  top  of  it." 

"But  who's  been  doing  it?  And  what  have  they  been 
doing?"  cried  the  bewildered  Jeremy. 

"Not  guilty  on  either  count.  Somebody's  been  im 
pressing  our  friends,  the  enemy,  that  there's  just  one  way 
to  be  saved,  and  that  the  only  Al,  guaranteed  salvation 
is  via  The  Guardian.  Watch  'em  crowd  to  the  mourners' 
seat." 

"What 's  the  paper  been  doing  since  I  — " 

"Not  a  thing.  Not  a  blooming  thing,  Boss,  but  just 
sawing  wood.  This  game  was  n't  started  from  inside.  I  '11 
swear  to  that.  Whoever 's  been  doing  the  trick  —  and  it 
looks  to  me  as  if  there 'd  been  some  expert  and  ree-fined 
blackmail  going  on  —  has  been  keeping  clear  of  us." 

"Judge  Dana!"  exclaimed  Jeremy,  struck  with  a 
thought. 

"Well,  I  've  been  sort  of  wondering  about  him  myself," 
admitted  the  other.  "  Met  him  on  the  street  yesterday  and 
he  wanted  me  to  call  him  up  as  soon  as  you  got  back." 

"All  right.  Here  I  am." 

"Ay-ah?  You've  got  to  show  me.  You're  not  back 
till  Doc  Summerfield  says  you  're  back." 

The  door  opened  and  the  amazed  physiognomy  of 
Buddy  Higman  appeared.    "The  Boss!"  he  exclaimed. 
"Holy  Moses!  I'm  a  liar." 
'   "What 'sup,  Buddy?" 

"I've  been  stallin'  off  Doc  Summerfield  and  a  crazy 


COMMON  CAUSE  441 

show-foor  downstairs.  They're  waitin'  now.  They  said 
would  you  come  peaceable  or  be  took.  I  told  'em  you  'd 
never  been  near  here." 

"Tell  'em  I  '11  come  peaceably,  Buddy,"  said  the  editor 
wearily.  He  turned  to  Andrew  Galpin.  "Andy." 

"Ay-ah?" 

"You're  sure  this  is  straight?  You're  sure  you're  not 
the  one  that's  crazy?  Or  I?" 

"Am  I  sure!  Go  out  the  front  way,  Boss,  and  see  the 
line  waiting.  That'll  convince  you.  I  tell  you,  unless 
something  busts,  we'll  win  out  sure." 

Hardly  could  the  editor  and  owner  of  The  Guardian, 
led  away  by  Doc  Summerfield  in  deep  disgrace,  assimilate 
the  hope  of  ultimate  victory  for  his  paper  and  himself. 
He  dared  not  let  himself  believe  in  it  yet,  because  of  the 
intruding  thought  of  Marcia  and  of  what  triumph  might 
mean  to  him. 


CHAPTER  XX 

CLICK-CLICK!  Click-click!  Clickety-click !  One 
hundred  pairs  of  knitting  needles  furnished  a  sub 
dued  Castanet  accompaniment  to  the  voice  of  a  long, 
lean  lady-droner  who  stood  upon  the  platform  of  the 
Fenchester  Club  Auditorium,  and  read  from  a  typed  list. 
At  times  she  referred  to  various  issues  of  The  Guardian 
ranged  on  a  flag-bedecked  table.  And  at  times  the  click 
ers  paused  to  make  notes  in  small  books  wherewith  they 
had  provided  themselves  for  that  very  purpose.  The 
gathering  was  the  every  morning  meeting  of  the  Fen 
chester  Ladies  War  Reading  Club. 

Socially  it  was  a  comprehensively  representative  gath 
ering,  and  something  more.  Pretty  much  every  family 
whose  comings  and  goings  were  wont  to  be  entered  (by 
Buddy  Higman  or  some  otner  arbiter  of  the  elegancies)  in 
The  Guardian's  Society  Notes  had  at  least  one  member 
present.  Sprinkled  among  the  women  who  made  up  the 
active  list  of  membership  were  a  few  associate  members, 
mere  males,  and  in  the  presiding  officer's  chair  sat  Mr. 
Montrose  Clark;  for,  after  the  regular  proceedings  of  the 
day,  special  business  was  in  order. 

Miss  Rappelje,  the  secretary,  read  from  her  list: 

"Nicholas  Engel,  grocer.  Last  year,  two  columns  a 
week,  average.  Since  The  Fair  Dealer  announcement, 
half  a  column." 

The  castanet  chorus  diminished  while  the  knitters  and 
crocheters  entered  a  note  against  Herr  Engel's  grocery. 


COMMON  CAUSE  443 

"The  Fliess  Brewing  Company,"  continued  the  reader. 
"Last  year  five  columns;  now,  none." 

"Hurray  for  Prohibition!  Beer's  a  German  drink  any 
way,"  cried  a  voice,  and  there  was  a  wave  of  laughter  as 
the  clicking  resumed. 

"The  Great  Northwestern  Stores.  Last  year  three 
full  pages,  regularly,  and  on  special  sales  as  high  as 
five—" 

"Pardon  me."  A  member  rose  in  the  center  of  the 
house.  "Mr.  Ahrens  sent  a  representative  to  tell  me  that, 
in  spite  of  unsettled  conditions,  they  have  contracted  to 
use  more  space  in  The  Guardian  than  ever  before,  and  to 
ask  me  to  report  it  here." 

"Let  'em!"  commented  a  determined  and  ominous 
voice.  "I  shall  wait  and  see." 

From  the  murmur  of  assent  which  greeted  this,  it  was 
evident  that  many  would  wait  and  see.  So  the  reading 
went  on,  through  dairies,  laundries,  undertakers,  soft 
drinks,  ice  dealers,  stationers,  milliners,  garages,  all  the 
lines  of  industry  which  bid  in  print  for  trade,  while  the 
knitters  alternately  toiled  and  made  their  notes. 

Outside,  in  a  small  anteroom  off  the  stage,  Mr.  Jeremy 
Robson  put  his  obstinate  head  down  and  balked.  Ten 
days'  enforced  rest,  except  for  his  one  escape,  had  gone 
far  to  restore  him  to  fitness.  Now  he  fended  off  Judge 
Selden  Dana  and  demanded  enlightenment. 

"Not  a  step  farther  till  I  know  what  I 'm  up  against," 
he  declared. 

"All  you  have  to  do,"  returned  the  lawyer  soothingly, 
"is  to  trust  to  me  and  do  as  I  tell  you." 

"Is  that  all! "  retorted  Jeremy,  with  intent.  "Who  are 
these  people  outside  and  what  are  they  doing?" 


444  COMMON  CAUSE 

,  "They  're  your  well-earned  enemies,  and  they  're  saving 
the  paper  for  you." 

" Somebody's  certainly  done  a  job  in  that  direction. 
But  how?  These  sound  like  mostly  women." 

"So  they  are.  As  to  how  they're  pulling  your  paper 
through,  that's  the  simplest  thing  in  the  world.  We  got 
up  a  War  Reading  Club." 

"Reading  Club,"  repeated  Jeremy. .  "Perfectly  simple! 
Of  course!  Andy  Galpin  said  the  whole  town  had  gone 
crazy  since  I  was  laid  up.  Andy  was  right." 

"A  great  authority  once  proposed  a  classic  question: 
'Who's  loony  now?'  Wait  until  you  hear  the  rest  of  this. 
The  club  meets  here  every  morning  to  do  knitting  and 
other  war-work  while  certain  extracts  from  the  local  pa 
pers  are  read  to  them." 

"Good  idea,"  remarked  Jeremy,  weary  but  polite. 
"Shall  I  have  something  put  in  the  paper  about  it?" 

"My  Lord,  no!"  almost  shouted  Dana. 

Jeremy  leaped  in  his  chair.  "I  wish  you  would  n't  do 
that  sort  of  thing,"  he  protested. 

"Still  a  bit  jumpy?  Well,  I'll  explain  in  words  of  one 
syllable.  But  first  apply  your  eye  to  this  peep-hole  and 
tell  me  what  you  think  of  our  membership." 

Doing  as  he  was  directed,  the  editor  looked  out  over 
what,  in  earlier  days,  he  would  have  identified  as  a  mass- 
meeting  of  The  Guardian's  enemies. 

"How  much  purchasing  power  per  year  in  the  local 
stores  would  you  suppose  they  represent?"  asked  Dana. 

"  A  big  lot.  Quarter  of  a  million,  maybe." 

"Nearer  twice  that.  Now,  we've  got  a  little  committee 
called  the  Committee  on  Selective  Reading.  I  happen  to 
be  chairman  of  it.  Our  committee  chooses  what  adver- 


COMMON  CAUSE  445 

tisements  —  you  get  that,  Jem?  —  what  advertisements 
shall  be  read  each  day.  That 's  our  White  List.  Our  mem 
bers  deal  only  with  merchants  whose  loyalty  is  above  sus 
picion.  What  would  you  think  of  the  loyalty  of  an  adver 
tiser  who  quit  The  Guardian  to  go  into  The  Fair  Dealer?  " 

"Don't  ask  me.   I'm  prejudiced." 

"So  is  the  War  Reading  Club.  It's  my  committee's 
business  to  keep  'em  prejudiced  —  against  any  merchant 
who  advertises  in  the  wrong  place.  Now,  our  theory 
is  that  our  members  read  no  advertisements,  themselves, 
and  don't  intend  to;  certainly  not  after  The  Fair  Dealer 
appears.  Therefore  they  know  of  the  local  advertising 
only  as  the  Committee  on  Selective  Reading  chooses  it 
for  them.  That's  the  theory." 

"What's  the  fact?" 

"The  fact  is  that  ninety-nine  per  cent  of  those  women 
will  see  any  merchant  in  town  doubly  damned  before 
they  spend  a  cent  in  his  shop  unless  he  sticks  by  The 
Guardian  as  long  as  The  Guardian  sticks  by  the  country. 
Do  you  get  it  now?" 

"Boycott!" 

"And  blackmail.  You  should  have  seen  the  weak- 
kneed  among  the  store-people  when  we  let  our  programme 
leak  out!  You  heard  part  of  it  from  Galpin." 

"Dana,"  said  the  editor,  "if  you'd  told  me  this  before, 
you  'd  have  saved  me  some  mighty  tough  days." 

"Couldn't  risk  it.  Can't  you  see  that  we've  been 
skirting  the  ragged  edge  of  the  law?  If  you'd  been  in  on 
it,  The  Fair  Dealer  could  have  charged  conspiracy." 

"Then  why  tell  me  now?" 

"  We-ell,  we  can't  work  under  cover  much  longer.  Be 
sides,  I  doubt  if  there's  much  of  any  fight  left  in  Embree 


446  COMMON  CAUSE 

and  his  crowd."  He  peered  out  through  the  peep-hole. 
"  They've  turned  it  into  an  experience  meeting  now,"  he 
remarked.  "  Then  you  come  on.  They 're  expecting  you. 
Will  you  come  peaceably  or  be  escorted?" 

"Let  me  keep  out  of  sight  until  it's  my  turn,  anyway," 
pleaded  Jeremy. 

So  the  lawyer,  leading  him  in,  established  him  behind  a 
wing  where  he  was  half -hidden,  and  placed  himself  as  a 
screen.  As  he  settled  himself  down,  a  plump  and  luxuri 
ously  dressed  woman  at  the  rear  of  the  hall  rose  and  said 
austerely : 

"I  disapprove  The  Guardian's  local  policy.  I  consider 
it  unfair  and  prejudiced  against  —  er  —  ah  —  against 
our  kind  of  people.  But  while  we  are  at  war  I  agree  to 
support  it  loyally  and  to  deal  only  with  those  who  support 
it." 

"Are  my  eyes  playing  tricks?"  whispered  Jeremy  in 
Dana's  ear.  "Or  is  that  Mrs.  Ambrose  Galsworth,  who 
tried  to  have  me  blackballed  at  the  Canoe  Club?" 

"She 's  a  new  member.  Wait !  There 's  worse  to  come," 
chuckled  the  lawyer. 

A  little,  lean,  brisk,  twinkling  old  maid  projected  her 
self  out  of  her  seat  with  a  jumping-jack  effect. 

"I  never  expected  to  live  to  see  the  day  I  'd  speak  for 
The  Guardian  after  they  printed  that  awful  political  at 
tack  on  my  dear  uncle,"  she  declared.  "But  the  country 
first!  Put  down  Celia  Jenney  on  your  list.  And"  —  her 
black  bright  eyes  snapped  out  sparks  —  "if  there's  a 
store  in  town  that  don't  want  my  trade  while  this  war  is 
on,  all  it  has  to  do  is  to  take  its  advertising  out  of  The 
Guardian  and  put  it  into  The  Fair  Dealer  —  if  that 's  its 
silly  name." 


COMMON  CAUSE  447 

"She  spends  only  about  fifteen  thousand  a  year  in  this 
town,"  observed  Dana  aside  to  Jeremy. 

"No  wonder  the  advertisers  have  been  falling  over 
themselves  to  get  back  into  the  paper!"  murmured  the 
editor. 

After  further  informal  pledges  the  chairman  called  for 
reports  from  the  "Missionary  Workers."  Up  rose  Alder 
man  Crobin  —  Crooked  Crobin,  as  The  Guardian  had 
dubbed  him  for  years. 

"Tree  of  my  constitchoonts  assured  me  this  mahrnin' 
—  voluntarily,  ye  ondherstand ;  quite  voluntarily  —  that 
they  are  cancelin'  their  contrac's  wid  th'  noo  paper." 

A  tall,  pale  young  woman  rose  in  the  center  of  the 
house,  and  as  she  moistened  her  nervous  lips  a  murmur 
and  a  rustle  swept  over  the  audience;  for  this  was  Mrs. 
Dennis  Robbins,  Governor  Embree's  sister. 

"I  bring  five  pledges  of  advertisers  to  stand  by  The 
Guardian  —  and  America,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice;  and  a 
quick  ripple  of  sympathetic  applause  answered  her. 

Before  it  had  died  away,  old  Madam  Taylor  rustled 
silkily  to  her  feet. 

"I'm  the  tax-dodger,"  she  cackled.  "See  The  Guard 
ian  if  you  don't  believe  it.  But  I  never  dodged  a  good 
fight.  Two  stores  that  I  trade  with  cut  down  their  adver 
tising  in  The  Guardian.  So  I  cut  down  my  trade  with 
them.  I  cut  it  down  to  nothing.  Now  I  understand  they  feel 
differently  about  the  paper,"  she  concluded  malevolently. 

Up  popped  pursy  little  Mrs.  Stockmuller.  "Me,  I  quit 
Ahrens  anyway,"  she  announced,  and  sat  down  flushed 
with  the  resultant  applause  of  the  multitude  and  sud 
denly  conscious  of  latent  and  hitherto  unsuspected  capa 
bilities  as  a  public  speaker. 


448  COMMON  CAUSE 

Then  little  Anne  Serviss  pledged  the  support  of  three 
hundred  University  girls,  and  following  her,  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Merserole  reared  himself  impressively  into  sight  and 
hearing. 

"Inter  arma,  rixse  minores  silent,"  he  proclaimed  orac 
ularly,  "if  my  friend  Judge  Dana,  whom  I  observe  upon 
the  stage,  will  permit  me  to  alter  a  legal  proverb  to  fit  the 
occasion.  '  In  time  of  war,  lesser  quarrels  are  stilled.' 
Many  of  us  have  had  our  —  er  —  trials  with  The  Guard 
ian.  But  all  that  is  forgotten  in  the  larger  cause.  I  beg 
to  report,  Mr.  Chairman,  that  eighteen  members  of  my 
church  —  leading  members,  I  may  add  —  have  signed  an 
agreement  to  advertise  in  no  local  morning  paper  during 
the  war." 

"But  that's  boycott  and  against  the  law,  isn't  it?" 
queried  some  cautious  member. 

Dana  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"Let  'em  take  it  up!"  he  cried,  his  face  lighted  by  a 
joyous  snarl.  "Just  let  us  get  'em  into  court  on  it!" 

A  shout  answered  him.  There  was  no  mistaking  the 
temper  of  that  crowd.  Friends  or  enemies  of  The  Guard 
ian's  lesser  policies,  they  were  shoulder  to  shoulder  now 
in  the  common  cause.  A  conservative  old  judge  was  just 
resuming  his  seat,  after  reporting,  when  the  door  was 
jerked  open  and  there  burst  into  the  aisle  Andrew  Galpin, 
livid  with  the  excitement  of  great  tidings. 

"  They  Ve  quit ! "  he  shouted.  Then,  recalling  himself  to 
the  proprieties,  he  added:  "I  beg  pardon,  Mr.  Chairman. 
But  they've  quit!" 

Mr.  Montrose  Clark  rose.  "Mr.  Andrew  Galpin,  of 
The  Guardian,"  he  announced.  "Mr.  Galpin  has,  per 
haps,  matter  of  interest  to  present  before  this  meeting." 


COMMON  CAUSE  449 

"They  Ve  quit.  That's  all/'  said  the  excited  Galpin. 
His  wild  and  roving  glance  fell  upon  Jeremy  Robson  who 
had  incautiously  moved  forward  at  sight  of  his  associate, 
and  the  last  vestige  of  parliamentary  decorum  departed 
from  him.  " Do  you  get  that,  Boss?"  he  bellowed.  "The 
Botches  have  quit.  We  win." 

"Who's  quit?"  "What's  a  Botch?"  "Platform!" 
"Tell  us  about  it." 

"What's  a  Botch?"  repeated  the  general  manager. 
"Bausch  is  a  Botch.  Wanser's  a  Botch.  The  Deutscher 
Club's  a  batch  of  Botches.  ' Smiling  Mart'  Embree's  a 
Botch,  The  Fair  Dealer  would  have  been  a  Botch,  but 
there  is  n't  going  to  be  any  Fair  Dealer.  They  could  n't 
stand  the  gaff  you  folks  put  to  'em.  Publication  day  's 
indefinitely  postponed." 

Hardly  had  he  finished  when  Jeremy  Robson  found 
himself  being  hustled  by  Judge  Dana  and  the  chairman, 
who  had  possessed  themselves  of  an  arm  apiece,  to  the 
front  of  the  platform.  The  house  rose  to  him  in  a  burst  of 
acclaim.  He  looked  out,  with  nerves  aquiver,  across  that 
waiting  audience  of  one-time  enemies,  opponents  bitter 
and  implacable,  bitterly  and  implacably  fought  in  many 
an  unforgotten  campaign;  now  his  allies,  rallying  to  a 
service  greater  than  all  past  hatreds,  higher  than  all  past 
loyalties. 

Judge  Dana's  words  echoed  back  to  him:  "In  the  same 
cause  —  with  the  last  drop  of  blood  —  to  the  finish!" 
What  terms  could  he  find  wherein  to  speak  to  these,  his 
enemies  of  old,  looking  up  at  him  with  such  befriending 
eyes? 

Montrose  Clark  had  delivered  himself  of  a  hurried  and 
unheeded  introduction,  and  now  Jeremy  stood,  with  shak- 


450  COMMON  CAUSE 

ing  knees,  gazing  down  at  them.  Opportunely  and  sud 
denly  the  parable  of  Nick  Milliken  came  into  his  mind. 

"My  friends,"  he  said  unsteadily,  "I  can't  make  you  a 
speech.  There  are  n't  thanks  made  for  this  sort  of  thing. 
But  I  can  tell  you  the  parable  of  Milliken.  You  know 
Milliken,  the  Socialist  —  one  of  us.  He  was  talking  to  a 
bunch  that  were  ripe  for  a  strike,  arguing  against  it  be 
cause  it  would  hinder  one  little  corner  of  our  war.  This 
is  what  he  told  them:  'All  my  life,'  he  said,  'I've  been 
fighting  Wall  Street  and  the  firm  of  J.  P.  Morgan  &  Com 
pany.  I'm  against  everything  they  represent.  I  expect 
to  go  on  fighting  them  the  rest  of  my  life.  But  if  I  were 
walking  down  the  street  with  Mr.  Morgan  and  we  met  a 
mad  wolf  in  the  road  I  'd  say  to  him:  "  Pierpont,  let's  get 
together  and  kill  that  wolf.  Our  little  scrap  can  wait." ' 

"That's  what  Milliken  told  them,  my  friends.  That's 
all  I  can  say  to  you  now.  We've  had  our  differences,  you 
and  I.  We'll  have  them  again.  They  seemed  big  and  bit 
ter  at  the  time.  How  little  they  seem  now !  For  now  we  're 
facing  the  mad  wolf  of  Germany  right  here  in  Centralia. 
He's  in  the  heart  of  our  State.  Let's  get  him  out!  Our 
little  scrap  can  wait!" 

They  rose  to  him  again. 

"But,  God  bless  your  dear  hearts,"  cried  young  Jeremy 
Robson  with  shining  eyes  and  outstretched  hands,  "how 
can  we  ever  fight  each  other  after  this!" 

Up  in  a  far  corner  of  the  gallery  a  pair  of  strong,  little, 
sun-tanned,  eager,  tremulous  hands  went  forth  involun 
tarily  as  if  to  meet  Jeremy's,  unseen. 

While  that  very  unliterary  and  decidedly  militant  or 
ganization,  the  Fenchester  War  Reading  Club,  was  pour- 


COMMON  CAUSE  451 

ing  forward  to  overwhelm  the  editor  of  The  Guardian, 
there  gathered  in  the  little  side  room  a  hasty  and  earnest 
conference  of  three.  Andrew  Galpin  and  Montrose  Clark 
having  left  it,  the  lone  survivor,  Judge  Selden  Dana,  re 
mained  to  catch  Jeremy  as  he  came  out. 

"Jem,"  he  said,  "you've  won." 

"Thanks  to  you  people!" 

"Thanks  to  a  good  fight.  Galpin  tells  me  The  Fair 
Dealer  backers  are  through.  We've  scared  the  local  ad 
vertisers  out  of  their  contracts  and  the  paper  can't  hold 
'em  because  of  the  change  of  publication  date.  Verrall 
made  a  fatal  break  when  he  put  a  date  in  that  contract. 
They  're  through.  But  The  Fair  Dealer  is  going  on." 

"No!  Who's  going  to  back  it?" 

"Montrose  Clark.  He's  going  to  take  it  over." 

"For  his  corporation  campaign.  I  see.  Then  this 
means  another  fight  of  another  kind  on  my  hands." 

"He's  going  to  use  it  to  beat  out  Martin  Embree  with 
his  own  candidate." 

Jeremy's  eyes  narrowed.  "You  know  The  Guardian 
can't  and  won't  stand  for  you  fellows'  kind  of  candidate." 

"You'll  stand  for  this  one." 

"Who  is  it?" 

"Jeremy  Robson." 

"  Jer  —  Andy  was  right,  sure!"  gasped  the  other.  "  The 
town  has  gone  crazy  and  I  Ve  gone  with  it." 

"On  a  platform  of  Centralia  for  the  War,"  continued 
the  other.  "Now  put  your  lower  jaw  back  on  its  hinges 
and  I  '11  explain  how  this  is  n't  as  crazy  from  our  point  of 
view  as  you  'd  think.  You  '11  be  elected  —  for  we  '11  lick 
' Smiling  Mart'  —  only  for  the  unfinished  term.  The  war 
will  last  that  long,  and  while  the  war  lasts  internal  poll- 


452  COMMON  CAUSE 

cies  don't  matter.  After  the  war  —  why,  we'll  have  a 
newspaper  of  our  own  to  lick  you  with  when  you  come  up 
for  reelection." 

"  I  '11  give  you  a  good  run  both  ways,"  promised  Jeremy. 
And  the  two  men  soberly  shook  hands  upon  it. 

"What  a  scheme;  the  woman's  boycott!"  said  Jeremy 
presently.  "I  might  have  known  that  was  your  fine  Ital 
ian  hand." 

"It  wasn't." 

"No?  Who  did  work  it  out?" 

"A  much  cleverer  politician  than  I  ever  thought  of 
being." 

"There  ain't  no  sich  animule,"  denied  Jeremy.  "Show 
it  to  me." 

"I  have  been  sitting  at  the  feet  of  Wisdom,  Wile,  and 
Woman.  Her  other  name,"  said  Judge  Dana,  "is  Marcia 
Ames.  And  my  professional  advice  to  you  is  to  be  on 
your  way." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

"In  dreams  she  grows  not  older 
The  lands  of  Dream  among  —  " 

THE  deep,  soft  thrill  of  the  contralto  voice  floated 
through  the  warm  air  on  invisible  wiogs.  The  lis 
tener,  coming  softly  up  the  pathway  of  the  old  garden, 
paused  to  hearken,  to  drink  it  in,  with  the  fragrance  of  the 
late  roses,  the  wine  of  the  sun-drenched  air,  the  peace  of 
the  shaded  ways,  all  the  other  lovelinesses  of  a  world  sud 
denly  blessed  to  his  soul. 

"  Though  all  the  world  wax  colder, 
Though  all  the  songs  be  sung. 
In  dreams  doth  he  —  " 

The  voice  faltered  and  sank,  at  the  sound  of  his  foot 
upon  the  steps.  The  singer's  hands  strayed  like  suddenly 
affrighted  things  among  the  keys  of  the  piano.  She  stood 
to  face  him  as  he  entered,  and  of  all  the  tremulous,  tender 
beauty  of  her,  only  her  eyes  meeting  and  merging  with 
his,  were  unwavering. 

"Jem!"  she  said,  very  low. 

"Marcia!" 

She  lifted  her  arms  as  he  crossed  swiftly  to  her,  and 
clung  to  him,  and  gave  him  her  lips  in  glad  and  complete 
surrender,  while  he  held  her  close  and  murmured  to  her 
the  words  that  he  had  been  so  hungry  to  speak,  she  so 
hungry  to  hear. 

"Jem,"  she  whispered  presently,  "you  cannot  give  me 
up  now,  Jem." 

"I  never  did,  dear  love,"  he  said. 


454  COMMON  CAUSE 

"Ah,  but  you  did.  You  tried.  How  could  you  even 
try!" 

"I  never  did.  Not  really.  Not  for  a  moment.  Not 
even  when  I  thought  you  had  married  some  one  else." 

She  moved  in  his  arms  to  hide  her  eyes  against  his  face. 

"You  must  have  known  that  I  never  could/'  she  mur 
mured. 

"Don't  you  see,"  he  pursued  eagerly,  "that  if  I  had 
really  given  you  up,  I  should  have  given  up  the  paper,  the 
fight,  everything?  Don't  you  see  that,  love?  " 

"Yes;  that  is  true,"  she  assented  sweetly.  "That  must 
be  true.  Though  perhaps  you  did  not  know  it.  ...  Ah, 
Jem,  but  I  have  wearied  for  you ! " 

"When 's  the  very  earliest  you  can  marry  me,  dearest?  " 
he  asked. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  her  level  and  fearless  eyes. 
"Any  time,  Jem." 

"  I'm  asking  a  lot  of  you,"  he  said,  his  eager  face 
clouding  for  the  moment.  "It  is  n't  all  plain  sailing  yet; 
and  there  won't  be  so  much  to  live  on  even  here.  If  we  go 
to  Washington  you  '11  find  it  doubly  hard,  I  'm  afraid." 

"But  I  have  my  own  money,  Jem.  And  what  is  this 
about  Washington?" 

"Oh!"  said  he  casually;  "they  want  to  nominate  me 
for  the  Senate,  against  Mart  Embree." 

"Jem!  You  will  take  it?" 

"If  my  liege  lady  approves." 

"Of  course  she  approves.  It  is  wonderful.  How  could 
you  keep  it  to  yourself !  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  the  in 
stant  you  came?" 

"Well,  you  see,  I  was  intent  on  other  matters,"  said 
Jem,  looking  down  into  the  flushed  and  adorable  face, 


COMMON  CAUSE  455 

which  flushed  the  more  adorably  at  his  words.  He  bent 
to  her.  "  Dearest  of  my  heart,"  he  said  passionately, 
"what  does  it  all  matter  in  comparison  with  you!'* 

Stepping  gloriously  from  rose-tipped  cloud  to  rose- 
tipped  cloud  as  youth  may  do  when  winged  with  happi 
ness  and  love,  Jeremy,  on  his  way  office- ward,  presently 
found  himself  at  the  Inter-Urban  terminal  being  accosted 
by  a  man  who  said : 

"  If  you  are  deaf,  I  can  make  signs." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  apologized  Jeremy  hastily. 
"Were  you  speaking  to  me?" 

"Only  three  times,"  said  the  stranger.  "So  far,"  he 
added. 

Thus  recalled  from  his  castle-building  the  editor  con 
templated  his  interceptor.  The  man  was  a  stranger  in 
town.  He  carried  a  small,  nondescript  bag.  He  looked 
like  a  country  minister  on  a  week-day,  or  a  prosperous 
plumber  off  the  job,  or  a  middle-aged  clerk  on  an  errand, 
or  any  one  of  a  hundred  other  everyday  individuals.  In 
fact  he  was  in  face,  figure,  dress,  and  manner,  the  most 
commonplace,  humdrum,  unremarkable,  completely  av 
erage  individual  that  Jeremy  had  ever  encountered.  He 
might  have  posed  as  the  composite  photograph  of  a  con 
vention  of  ten  thousand  Average  Citizens. 

"I  was  asking  you:  do  you  know  this  city,"  he  was  say 
ing  patiently. 

Now  Jeremy  possessed  a  singularly  retentive  visual 
memory.  This  memory  had  suddenly  started  working 
with  a  jar.  "I  do,"  he  said.  "Do  I  know  you?" 

"You  do  not,"  said  the  man. 

"I'm  not  so  sure,"  retorted  Jeremy.    "I  seem  to  re- 


456  COMMON  CAUSE 

member  a  talk  at  the  Owl's  Nest  in  Philadelphia,  six 
years  ago  or  so,  by  a  distinguished  globe-trotter  and  war 
correspondent.  Now  if  you  had  n't  told  me  that  I  did  not 
know  you,  I  would  have  said  — " 

"You  would  have  thought,"  corrected  the  stranger, 
without  the  flicker  of  an  eyelid. 

"I  would  have  thought  you  were  that  lecturer." 

"Likenesses  are  deceptive,"  observed  the  other. 

"And,  in  spite  of  your  new  mustache,  remembering  a 
meeting  at  the  Lion  d'Or  just  off  the  Place  Clichy  a  year 
later,  I  would  have  said  — " 

"You  would  have  thought,"  interpolated  the  other, 
imperturbably. 

"I  would  have  thought  that  you  were  still  the  same, 
and  I  would  have  said  —  that  is,  I  would  have  thought 
that  your  name  was  Jerome  Tillinghast." 

"But  you  would  n't  say  it." 

"Not  on  any  account,  if  there  is  good  reason  against  it 
in  the  opinion  of  Jerome  Tillinghast  —  who,  by  the  way, 
did  n't  have  that  furrow  over  his  temple  when  I  knew 
him." 

"Shrapnel,"  explained  the  other.  "Russian  campaign. 
Got  me  in  the  leg,  too.  So  they  packed  me  home,  and 
Uncle  Sam  set  me  to  work.  My  official  name  is  James 
Tilley.  And  yours?" 

Jeremy  explained  himself. 

"The  Guardian,  eh?  You're  the  last  man  in  town  I'd 
have  looked  up.  But  now  that  I've  met  you,  I'll  just 
mention  that  Washington  thinks  pretty  well  of  The 
Guardian.  Keep  it  up,  my  boy.  And  now,  where  would 
I  be  likely  to  find  a  bold  and  dashing  patriot,  by  name, 
Emil  Bausch?" 


COMMON  CAUSE  457 

Jeremy  gave  the  directions.  James  Tilley  thanked  him. 
"Nobody  ever  recognizes  me,"  he  observed,  "or  notices 
me,  or  remembers  me.  I  'm  such  a  common  article.  That 's 
all  that  makes  me  valuable.  So  kindly  forget  all  this. 
And  good-bye." 

Five  minutes  later  he  was  sitting  in  Emil  Bausch's 
private  office  explaining  to  that  perturbed  gentleman  cer 
tain  supposedly  very  private  matters  in  connection  with 
a  chemical  project  in  one  phase  of  which  Bausch  had 
acted  for  a  certain  otherwise  unidentified  "Mr.  Stern." 
Bausch  was  loftily  contemptuous,  though  nervous. 

"The  other  details,"  said  the  caller  pleasantly,  "are 
entered  in  Ledger  M,  under  the  cipher  of  X-32,  formerly 
kept  at  60  Wall  Street." 

Bausch  gulped  twice  and  said  he  had  never  heard  of  it. 

"Fortunate  for  you,"  returned  the  other.  "Take  my 
advice  and  don't  hear  of  it.  Don't  have  any  part  in  it. 
Don't  do  business  with  people  who  have.  Trouble  lies 
that  way." 

Thereafter  Mr.  Bausch  repaired  to  the  Deutscher  Club 
where  he  had  several  more  beers  than  was  his  wont,  and 
subsequently  delivered  himself  of  touching  appreciations 
of  free  speech  and  the  privileges  of  American  citizenship. 
He  wound  up,  after  dinner,  by  declaring  to  a  puzzled  as 
semblage  that  he  knew  his  rights  and  was  n't  afraid  of 
anybody,  even  if  he  did  come  from  Washington  and  wear 
a  tin  shield. 

Meantime  a  supremely  ordinary  appearing  person  con 
trived  to  get  himself  admitted  to  the  President's  room  of 
the  Fenchester  Trust  Company,  and  introduced  himself 
to  Robert  Wanser,  who  found  his  bearing,  mild  though  it 
was,  distinctly  antipathetic.  In  a  voice  so  quiet  as  to  give 


458  COMMON  CAUSE 

the  effect  of  being  meek,  the  intruder  ventured  to  advise 
Mr.  Wanser  to  shun  the  Deutscher  Club. 

"Go  to  the  devil !"  retorted  Mr.  Wanser,  whose  nerves 
had  been  recently  frazzled  by  local  as  well  as  national 
events. 

"I'm  giving  you  the  opposite  advice,"  returned  the 
other  equably.  "  Keep  away  from  the  Deutscher  Club." 

"Save  your  advice  for  those  who  want  it.  Who  are  you, 
anyway?" 

"James  Tilley,  at  your  service.  Sent  here  from  Wash 
ington  to  help  you  avoid  trouble." 

The  word  "Washington"  fell  chill  upon  the  banker's 
ear.  Nevertheless,  he  blustered  "The  Deutscher  Club  is 
my  club.  The  Government  cannot  tell  a  private  citizen  to 
keep  away  from  a  private  club." 

"But  a  well-wisher  —  such  as  myself  —  may  suggest 
that  he  find  his  amusements  elsewhere." 

"Well-wisher!  A(c)h!  Spy.  Is  this  a  free  country?  In 
Germany  one  would  not  be  so  oppressed." 

"This  is  not  Germany.  Bear  that  in  mind.  The 
Deutscher  Club  is  —  or  something  like  it." 

"But—" 

"And,  by  the  way,  tell  your  wife —  Bertha  Wanser 
is  your  wife,  isn't  she?  Exactly!  She  talks  too  much. 
Propaganda.  Tell  her  to—" 

"Vimmen,  too!"  snarled  the  other.  "You  can't  even 
keep  your  hands  off  vimmen.  Tell  her  yourself." 

James  Tilley  sighed.  "I  will,"  he  said,  and  departed, 
leaving  an  irritant,  disconcerting  and  healthily  prudent 
impress  upon  the  mind  of  the  grandson  of  '48. 

As  for  Mrs.  Wanser,  she  was  profoundly  displeased 
with  the  face,  apparel,  carriage,  and  particularly  the 


COMMON  CAUSE  459 

manner  of  her  unknown  caller,  which  was  abrupt  and 
brusque. 

"You  go  to  the  motion  pictures,  madam,"  he  stated. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  wondering. 

"On  the  nth  you  were  at  the  Gayety.  A  Four-Minute- 
Man  spoke.  You  protested  to  the  management." 

"  I  did.  I  told  the  manager  he  'd  lose  my  custom  if  they 
let  such  nonsense  go  on." 

"The  speaker  was  Professor  Brender,  of  the  Univer 
sity—" 

"A  German,"  she  broke  in.  "And  he  gets  up  in  public 
and  makes  shame  of  Germany." 

"As  a  Four-Minute-Man  he  speaks  with  the  authority 
of  the  Government.  On  the  I4th  you  protested  to  the 
Orpheum." 

"You  been  spying  on  me,"  said  the  lady,  wrathfully. 

"  Certainly.  You  're  a  suspicious  person.  Take  my  ad 
vice.  Stop  talking,  or  if  you  must  talk,  talk  like  an  Ameri 
can.  Propaganda  is  a  dangerous  game.  Go  to  those  two 
movie  managers  and  withdraw  — " 

"  I  won't,"  she  declared,  pale  with  fury. 

"  I  think  you  will.  Ask  your  husband.  And  do  as  he 
tells  you.  He'll  tell  you  just  what  I  have  —  if  he's  wise." 

For  all  his  modest  disavowals  of  being  able  to  make  an 
impression  upon  people,  there  were  now  at  least  three  in 
dividuals  in  Fenchester  who  would  hold  in  tenacious  and 
painful  memory  to  the  last  day  of  their  lives  the  smallest 
detail  of  James  Tilley's  unremarkable  personality.  He 
now  proceeded  to  enlarge  the  list.  Whether  by  chance  or 
by  design,  he  encountered  Pastor  Klink,  who  was  doing 
some  quiet  research  work  in  connection  with  back  files  of 
the  newspapers,  in  the  City  Library,  and  Pastor  Klink 


460  COMMON  CAUSE 

took  the  next  train  for  home  and  a  reflective  silence.  He 
met  with  the  Reverend  Theo  Gunst  and  that  fervid  theo 
logian  retired  to  draft  an  editorial  for  the  leading  German 
religious  weekly,  reeking  with  protestations  of  loyalty, 
which  almost  tore  his  agonized  heart  out  by  its  Teutonic 
roots.  He  ran  across  Gordon  Fliess  and  earnestly  coun 
seled  him  against  the  strain  of  frequent  railway  journeys 
between  Bellair  and  Fenchester.  On  the  other  hand,  and 
as  indicating  a  certain  amiable  flexibility  of  view  on  his 
part,  he  dropped  in  upon  A.  M.  Wymett  to  extol  the 
broadening  influence  of  travel.  A.  M.  Wymett  traveled. 

He  called  upon  Vogt  and  Niebuhr,  and  Henry  Dolge, 
the  educational  expert,  leaving  behind  him  devastated 
areas  of  alarm,  caution,  and  at  least  temporary  silence. 

Within  two  days  after  his  arrival,  though  he  had  said 
no  word  nor  even  given  any  hint  upon  either  point,  the 
Deutscher  Club  burst  into  a  riot  of  American  flags,  and 
Martin  Embree  made  a  speech  so  full  of  patriotic  pathos 
that  it  brought  tears  to  the  eyes  of  his  hearers,  particu 
larly  the  Germans. 

Bausch,  and  Niebuhr,  and  Dolge,  and  a  few  others  of 
the  old  school,  however,  took  to  meeting  in  a  respectable 
saloon  kept  by  one  Muller  down  in  "the  Ward."  To 
them  came  Gordon  Fliess,  and  influential  men  from  the 
Northern  Tier,  for  conference.  What  passed  there  was 
asserted  to  be  perfectly  loyal,  and  supposed  to  be  quite 
private.  .  .  . 

But  within  a  fortnight,  James  Tilley,  more  unobtru 
sive  than  ever,  stepped  off  another  Inter-Urban  trolley, 
and  stayed  over  one  train.  Thence  he  went  to  Bellair,  and 
so  passes  into  his  chosen  obscurity.  He  gave  no  advice 
this  time.  Not,  at  least,  to  Bausch,  or  Dolge,  Niebuhr,  or 


COMMON  CAUSE  461 

the  respectable  saloon-keeper,  Muller;  neither  to  Gor 
don  Fliess.  But  the  respectable  saloon  unostentatiously 
ceased  to  exist.  And  its  more  than  respectable  patrons 
named  above  quietly  vanished,  and  the  places  that  had 
known  them  knew  them  no  more.  Observing  which,  the 
more  cautious  Robert  Wanser  trembled,  and  congratu 
lated  himself. 

Deutschtum,  hitherto  hardly  bent,  was  now  broken  in 
the  State  of  Centralia. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

ITJATRIOTISM  had  waxed  and  politics  waned  with 
J7  the  ebbing  of  the  year  1917,  in  Centralia.  Through 
the  murk  and  fume  of  alien  treachery,  enemy  propa 
ganda,  and  the  reckless  self-seeking  of  petty  partisanship 
had  burst  a  clear,  high,  consuming  flame  of  Americanism. 
Lesser  matters  were  forgotten  in  the  maintenance  of  that 
beacon-fire.  Men  of  all  types  of  political  belief,  of  all 
classes,  of  all  economic  and  social  creeds,  had  abandoned 
their  private  feuds  and  bitternesses  in  the  fervor  against 
the  common  enemy.  To  them  had  rallied  the  finer  and 
more  courageous  element  of  the  German- Americans, 
some  impulsively  from  emotion  and  sentiment  like  Stock- 
muller  and  Blasius,  others,  in  the  pain  and  travail  of 
old  ties  broken  and  from  the  profound  conviction  of  loy 
alty  and  right,  like  Professor  Brender.  Centralia,  thirty 
years  before  marked  by  Deutschtum  to  be  the  Little 
Germany  of  the  New  World,  was  slowly,  doggedly  estab 
lishing  its  birthright  of  Americanism. 

Poison  still  lurked  in  its  system.  There  were  whisper 
ings  in  dark  corners.  The  German-language  press  still 
gave  heart-service  to  the  Kaiser's  cause  in  hint  and  sug 
gestion  and  innuendo,  while  giving  lip-service  to  the  cause 
of  the  United  States  in  artificial  and  machine-made  edi 
torials.  The  German  pulpit,  preaching  an  ineradicable 
Germanism  by  the  very  use  of  the  German  tongue,  was 
lack-loyal  where  it  dared  not  be  disloyal.  Over  many  a 
Verein  and  Bund  and  Gesellschaft  the  Stars  and  Stripes 
waved  above  seething  revolt  of  spirit.  Workers  in  all  pa- 


COMMON  CAUSE  463 

triotic  causes  felt  the  dead-weight  of  a  sullen,  unworded, 
untraceable  opposition  clogging  their  efforts.  But  all  this 
was  negative.  Deutschtum,  a  few  short  months  before 
so  arrogant  and  confident  of  its  power  over  Centralia,  was 
on  its  defense.  More;  it  was  in  hiding.  No  other  one  force 
had  done  so  much  to  drive  it  thither  as  that  once  yellow 
mongrel  of  journalism,  The  Fenchester  Guardian. 

The  Guardian's  den  was  brightly  lighted  on  this  De 
cember  evening  of  1917.  It  was  brightly  lighted  on  most 
evenings.  Yet  Doc  Summerfield,  aforetime  of  a  pessimis 
tic  view  regarding  the  effect  of  night-labor  upon  Jeremy 
Robson,  was  obliged  to  admit  that  he  showed  a  steady 
improvement  in  spite  of  apparent  overwork.  Perhaps 
this  was  because  he  had  provided  himself  with  a  highly 
valued  assistant.  The  assistant  was  seated  opposite  the 
chief,  reading  proof  on  an  editorial,  when  the  door  opened, 
and  in  stalked  Andrew  Galpin,  traveling-bag  in  hand. 

"Hello,  Bosses!  "he  said. 

"Hello,  Andy,"  said  his  chief;  and  "Welcome  back, 
Andy,"  said  the  assistant  getting  up  to  perch  upon  the 
arm  of  the  chief  editorial  chair,  thus  leaving  a  seat  for 
the  general  manager,  who  took  it  with  a  nod. 

"I  saw  Cassius  Kimball,"  he  stated.  "He's  just  back 
from  Washington." 

"Any  news?"  asked  Jeremy. 

'•'We've  located  Emil  Bausch.  But  not  for  publication." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"Behind  two  rows  of  barbed  wire,  one  of  'em  charged 
with  electricity,  in  a  pleasant  Southern  camp.  He's  a 
member  of  the  Millionaires'  Club,  there.  They  caught 
him  on  that  chemical  deal.  Supposed  to  be  wholesale 
drugs;  really  high  explosives." 


464  COMMON  CAUSE 

"Any  other  of  our  extinguished  local  lights  heard 
from?" 

"Muller,  the  saloon-keeper,  is  down  there,  too.  But 
not  in  the  Millionaires'  Club.  He's  gardening.  One  dol 
lar  per  diem.  Martin  Dolge  is  in  Mexico." 

"What  about  Gunst  and  Klink  and  the  church  out 
fit?" 

"They've  promised  to  be  good.   Three  of  their  reli 
gious  weeklies  are  scheduled  to  quit.    Gordon  Fliess  has 
dropped  his  financial  support  of  the  German-American 
dailies.   We're  going  to  go  stale  for  lack  of  opposition' 
if  this  keeps  on,"  prophesied  Andy  sadly. 

"Cassius  did  n't  run  across  Mart  Embree  down  there, 
did  he?"  queried  Jeremy. 

"Ay-ah.  He  did.  Says  'Smiling  Mart'  was  running 
around  like  a  little,  worried  dog,  wagging  his  tail  anx 
iously  and  trying  to  make  his  peace." 

"Peace  is  still  Governor  Embree's  specialty,  then?" 
put  in  the  assistant,  from  her  perch. 

"Why,  I  guess  it  always  will  be,  so  long  as  there's  a 
German  vote  in  Centralia,"  returned  the  general  mana 
ger.  "But  what  does  ' Smiling  Mart'  amount  to,  now? 
We  've  got  the  whole  bunch  licked  to  a  frazzle,  and  licked 
for  keeps." 

"Do  you  think  so.  So  easily?" 

Andy  Galpin  looked  intently  at  Mrs.  Jeremy  Robson. 
"Maybe  I'm  wrong,"  he  said  meekly.  "You  think  it 
isn't  over?" 

The  little,  tawny  head  was  shaken  emphatically. 

"I  think  that  we  shall  have  it  all  to  fight  again,"  she 
said,  in  her  unchanged,  precise,  and  subtly  caressing  man 
ner  of  speech. 


COMMON  CAUSE  465 

"When?"  The  chief  and  the  general  manager  chal 
lenged  her  with  one  voice. 

"When  Germany's  peace  offer  is  made.  Then  you  will 
see  Governor  Embree  and  all  that  is  left  of  Germany  here 
making  their  fight  for  a  peace  which  will  be  worse  than  war. 
That  is  why  I  will  not  listen  to  Jem's  giving  up  the  paper." 

"What  do  you  think  of  that,  Andy?"  asked  Jem. 

The  general  manager  smiled  his  slow,  homely,  friendly 
smile  at  Marcia  Robson.  "  I  think  what  I  Ve  thought 
since  the  first  minute  I  set  eyes  on  her,"  he  said:  "that 
she's  a  wise  guy.  Boss,  we  have  n't  won  this  war  over 
here  until  we've  won  this  war  over  there,  and  don't  you 
forget  it !  By  the  way,  there 's  quite  a  little  talk  in  Wash 
ington,  Kimball  tells  me,  about  the  new  Senator-elect 
from  Centralia." 

"I  blush,  modestly  and  prettily,"  retorted  Jem.  "Or 
—  Marcia,  you  do  it  for  me.  I  'd  rather  stay  here  and 
run  the  old  Guardian." 

"  I  'd  rather  have  you,"  returned  Andy,  with  rueful 
emphasis. 

"We  shall  be  back  for  the  fight  that  is  coming,"  prom 
ised  Marcia. 

Galpin's  eyes  wandered  slowly  about  the  room  and  re 
turned  upon  Marcia.  "It  gives  me  the  shivers,"  he  said, 
"to  think  how  near  we  were  to  losing  out  on  the  whole 
fight  when  Buddy  Higman  went  and  got  you.  I  'd  like  to 
have  heard  Buddy's  argument." 

"It  was  effective,"  laughed  Marcia.  "Buddy  was  hon 
estly  convinced  that  without  The  Guardian  to  guide  it, 
the  Nation  would  go  to  immediate  destruction." 

"Buddy's  little  plan  turned  out  well  for  him,"  ob 
served  Jem.  "Marcia  is  sending  him  to  Old  Central  in 


466  COMMON  CAUSE 

the  fall.  Sort  of  a  fairy  godmother,  aren't  you?"  he 
added,  looking  up  at  his  wife.  "Pull  the  paper  through 
with  one  hand,  save  us  all,  and  make  a  man  of  Buddy 
with  the  other." 

"Do  not  give  me  too  much  credit,"  said  Marcia,  more 
gravely.  "It  was  Andy  who  really  held  you  here  when 
you  wished  to  go  into  the  army." 

"Oh,  well,  I  had  my  stake  in  the  paper,  too,"  dis 
claimed  the  general  manager,  picking  up  his  valise  and 
hat.  "Good-night,  Bosses,"  he  added.  "Don't  overwork 
and  spoil  your  beauty,  you  two." 

"Marcia,"  said  Jem,  after  their  aide  had  gone.  "That 
night  when  you  came  back  —  don't  go  away  while  I  'm 
talking  seriously,  please!  —  would  you  really  have  mar 
ried  me,  right  away,  then  and  there?" 

"Certainly,  I  would.  I  meant  to.  You  were  very  cruel. 
You  spoiled  my  plans." 

He  regarded  her  with  suspicion.  Was  there  a  note  of 
raillery  in  the  sweet,  even  voice? 

"What  plans?" 

"Why,  to  marry  you  then." 

"And  then  what?" 

"To  put  my  money  into  the  paper  and  keep  you  from 
selling  it,  of  course.  ' 

"But  if  I  would  n't  have  taken  it?  And  I  would  n't, 
you  know." 

"That  would  not  have  made  the  slightest  difference," 
she  said  calmly.  "You  could  not  have  sold  the  paper,  in 
any  case,  if  you  had  married  me  when  —  when  I  pro 
posed  to  you." 

"Could  n't  I !  I  'd  have  had  to,  if  matters  had  gone  on 
as  they  were  going." 


COMMON  CAUSE  467 

"No.  For  you  could  not  have  sold  the  paper  without 
the  plant,  and  the  plant  being  real  estate,  could  not  be 
transferred  without  the  wife's  consent.'7 

"So  it  couldn't!  You  wretched  little  plotter!  Who 
put  you  up  to  that?" 

"I  consulted  a  lawyer,"  she  replied  demurely.  "On  a 
hypothetical  case." 

"I'm  jealous,"  declared  Jem.  "You  were  trying  to 
marry  me  for  my  property  and  not  for  my  winning  self. 
Was  that  the  only  reason?" 

Her  face  changed  adorably  as  she  bent  over  him. 
"What  do  you  think?"  she  said. 

"  But  I  wanted  to  have  —  what  is  it  Andy  called  it?  — 
a  stake  in  the  paper,  too,"  she  continued,  after  a  mo 
ment.  "You  have  never  let  me.  Do  you  think  that  is 
fair?" 

"  It 's  the  only  fair  way.  We  're  not  out  of  the  woods 
yet,  with  The  Guardian.  Newspaper  property  is  going  to 
be  mighty  uncertain  before  this  war  is  over,  and  I  don't 
want  you  involved  in  it.  The  Guardian  has  taken  you  in, 
little  wife,  but  it  won't  take  your  money." 

"Not  even  if  you  should  need  it?   To  save  the  paper?" 

"  Not  even  then." 

"Jem,  I  —  I  want  a  —  a  stake  in  the  paper." 

"Why,  Marcia!  What  is  it,  dearest?  You're  not  cry 
ing,  are  you?" 

"No,  I  think  not.  If  I  am,  it  is  for  happiness,  Jem.  I  — 
I  have  a  —  a  special  stake  now  in  the  paper.  I  want  to 
keep  The  Guardian  to  hand  it  down  to  —  to  — " 

"  Marcia ! "  He  turned  in  the  circle  of  her  arms,  but  for 
once  the  frank  eyes  were  hidden  from  him. 

" —  to  our  son,"  said  the  soft  voice  with  a  little  catch 


468  COMMON  CAUSE 

in  it.  "I  am  sure  it  will  be  a  son,  Jem.  If  we  name  him 
Jeremy  Andrew  Robson"  —  the  voice  was  muffled  now 
against  Jem's  cheek  —  "he  will  be  almost  The  Guardian's 
child  —  next  to  being  ours,  Jem." 

Jem  drew  a  long,  deep  breath  of  happiness.  "There'll 
always  be  a  good  fight  for  a  hundred  per  cent  American 
paper  like  The  Guardian  to  get  into.  That 's  the  real  best 
of  the  business,  I  guess."  He  bent  over  the  little,  proud, 
bowed  head.  "I  hope  he'll  be  as  good  an  American  as 
his  mother,"  he  said. 


THE  END 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 


on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 

•&&  n  w^ 

REC'D  LD 

APR  21  1962 

AUG  -  3  1973 

REC'D  IB    AJIC 

1  5  73  -g  DM     •« 

•  ^    **  rifj 

JL 

^RY  UI;E  ONLY 

L21198b 

CIRC 

timuiu  it  HUM 

JUTiONDEPT. 

,"". 

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